


A Walk in the Snow

by oldenuf2nb



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Coming Out, Falling In Love, Fluff, Getting Together, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Post-War, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 12:29:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 38,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17683448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldenuf2nb/pseuds/oldenuf2nb
Summary: Harry retreats from the world after being outed in a spectacular and cruel way. Will Draco be the one to heal his wounded heart?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: This is a re-post of my 2009 fic that I wrote for 25 Days of Draco and Harry for LJ community slythindor100.
> 
> Prompt for this part: 
> 
>  

Harry pulled his scarf up higher around his throat and tugged his knitted cap down lower over his ears. When he’d started out on his morning ‘stroll’, his only thought had been to explore the landscape of his pristine fifteen acres with it’s first real covering of snow. He’d moved into the isolated rustic cottage the summer before, when the trees had been full of fruit and the rolling hillsides had been lush and green. He enjoyed the fall, with the changing of the season and the vibrant leaves, but he’d once loved winter, and the snow. When he saw the wonderland that his farm had become, he donned his heavy boots and coat, muffler, hat and gloves, and set out to explore his surroundings. And it had been pleasant, until the wind had picked up, making his lips numb and even the tips of his fingers in the heavy woolen gloves feel stiff and thick. Trudging through the several inches of powdery snow, he hunched his shoulders and jammed his hands into the pockets of his overcoat, quickening his strides to return to the house as quickly as he could. The last thing he needed was a cold, and another lecture from Hermione about how irresponsible he was with his health.  
  
He knew that she worried about him, and he supposed he could understand it. He’d been a mess most of last winter and into the spring. He’d never fancied himself one of those people who was fragile by nature, but then he’d never fancied himself one of those people who fell hopelessly in love, either. And yet, he had. Hopelessly, stupidly, blindly in love with the person he’d hoped to spend the rest of his life with.  
  
That had made the betrayal, when it came, that much more shocking and incomprehensible. He’d been a fool on rather a grand scale, and the humiliation of it had been devastating. So much so that he’d holed himself up at the house, drinking too much and eating too little, and had come down with a series of colds that had led to a debilitating bout of pneumonia. He’d simply not had the will to fight it off, and he’d ended up first in St. Mungo’s for a week, then in Ron and Hermione’s guest room for another two. When he’d finally returned to Grimmauld Place, he’d known only one thing; he couldn’t bear to live there any longer. Everywhere he looked he saw Scott, and his own foolishness.  
  
Hermione had told him that he had bought the farm on the ‘rebound’, and he understood why she felt that way. He’d lived in the city his entire life; what did he know about owning a farm? But there was just something about the place; something that seemed to promise if not happiness then at least a measure of peace and quiet, things he’d had little enough of since the end of the war. And as much as he loved his friends, he’d needed be further away, he needed the space. His body had healed but he’d realized that his heart, and his trust in other people, was badly damaged. He needed to find out who he was, post relationship disaster, and the only way to do that was alone.  
  
As he trudged down the long lane that led to the cozy farmhouse, the gusts seemed to be propelling him forward. But then the wind caught on the powdery snow, lifting it on the breeze to rush ahead of him, and the weak winter sunlight streaming through the bare, snow covered branches of the trees caught in each fine granule, making it sparkle like a wave of magic on the crisp morning air. Harry paused, watching the shimmering swirl as it lifted from the road and danced on the air, and for the first time in a very long time he felt a rush of simple pleasure.  
  
And even with his lips stiff from the cold, his face had apparently not forgotten how to smile.


	2. Ready or Not

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part:

Harry speared the shovel into the snow, feeling it drag across the walkway as he lifted a spade full of the six inches that had fallen over night and depositing it next to Ron and Hermione’s front walk. He could hear the sharp cut and drag of Ron’s shovel behind him as he performed the same function on the sidewalk. It felt good to do the physical job; the muscles across Harry’s shoulders pulled and burned as they flexed, but it had been so long since he’d done anything strenuous, and it was a pleasure to feel up to it, even if his lungs did feel like they were struggling with the harsh, cold air. It wasn’t enough to make him stop, and before long sweat was dripping down his cheek even as his labored breath fogged the frosty air.  
  
“Harry James Potter!”  
  
He looked up and saw Hermione standing on the top step, her hands propped on her hips and her expression thunderous. Harry paused, propping the shovel in the snow and leaning on it.  
  
“That would be me,” he said pertly, trying not to sound out of breath. With limited success. Her lips pinched and her eyes narrowed.  
  
“What do you think you’re doing?” She asked pointedly.  
  
“He’s helping me,” Ron answered, coming up behind him and clapping a hand on his shoulder. “He’s a good man.”  
  
Harry looked at him, then back at Hermione with an impudent nod. “What he said.”  
  
“He’s a good man,” she repeated tartly, “who almost died of pneumonia six months ago.”  
  
“Eight,” Harry interjected, frowning.  
  
“Fine, eight. It’s still too soon for you to be out here in twenty degrees shoveling snow. You were really sick, and the healer said it could take your lungs up to a year to recover.” She pinned her husband with a dark look. “And  _you_  should know better.”  
  
Ron rolled his eyes and clapped Harry on the back. “Come on, mate. Inside. She’ll just stand there glaring at us until you do. This is about done anyway.”  
  
Harry let Ron take his shovel, but he gave Hermione a wry look as he climbed the front steps. “I’m not an invalid,” he groused.  
  
“No, and I intend to keep it that way,” she said, turning towards the door and linking her arm though his. “Besides,” she went on, lowering her voice. “I’ve got some Irish coffee inside, and if you don’t get there first, Ron will drink it all.”  
  
Harry’s lips tugged up at the corner. “Well, in that case…”  
  
Hermione smiled at him as they went into the house.  
  
Their home was very much like them; an eclectic blend of books and tasteful décor, accented with the occasional bright and completely out of place piece of furniture or crocheted doily. She led him through the dining room and into the homey kitchen, where the rich, dark fragrance of coffee filled the air.  
  
“Sit,” she ordered with a point at one of the kitchen chairs, and he pulled off his hat, gloves and jacket, tossing them over another chair before taking a seat. She poured coffee into three heavy mugs, added brown sugar, cream, Irish liquor and a shot of whiskey, and carried two of them to the table, handing one to Harry. He held it under his nose and inhaled, his eyes closing in appreciative pleasure. He blew across the top, then took a sip.  
  
“Perfect,” he said with a grateful sigh. He’d not known how cold he was until he began to thaw, and his toes were tingling. They heard the front door open and slam, heard Ron stomp the snow from his boots, then heard his heavy footfalls as he came to the kitchen. When he saw the coffee waiting for him on the counter, he detoured long enough to buss his wife on her cheek.  
  
“The most perfect woman ever,” he said expansively. “I swear by all that’s holy.”  
  
Hermione smirked as she pulled out the chair next to Harry’s and sat. “Don’t let your mother hear you say that.”  
  
“She’s never made me Irish coffee,” he said, picking up the cup and leaning his hips back against the counter. “When she does, she can challenge you for the title. Until then…” He grinned and took a drink of his coffee, then sighed expressively.  
  
Hermione took a delicate sip of her coffee, then set the cup carefully on the table before turning to Harry, her expression earnest. “Harry, I want to talk to you.”  
  
He felt a sinking in the center of his chest. “About?”  
  
“Well,” she said, straightening slightly, her expression reminding him very much of that prim eleven year old he’d met on the train. “It’s almost Christmas, and with the holidays coming up, there will be get-togethers, and parties and things, and…”  
  
Harry sighed silently, his eyes dropping to his coffee, his lips tightening.  
  
“Harry.” She reached over and put her hand on his arm, squeezing slightly. “Please.”  
  
“Mate,” Ron said softly, and Harry exhaled before looking over at him. His blue eyes were kind. “Our friends miss you. No one but us has seen you in… months. Neville asks, and Dean, and Seamus...”  
  
Harry closed his eyes for a moment. “I still just…” He stopped, not sure what to say to make them understand. How could he explain that every time he was in a crowd, he was certain that he could see censure in people’s eyes? Or embarrassment? Their unease fed his; it was a vicious cycle. It was easier to just… stay away.  
  
“Harry.” This was Ron, his voice firm, and Harry looked up at him again warily. “No one cares anymore. It’s last year’s news, long since used to line the bottom of bird cages and then binned. And your friend’s, your  _real_  friends, never gave two galleons about any of that rubbish. You just wouldn’t let them close enough to tell you that.”  
  
Harry continued to hold his eyes, even as he chewed at his lower lip.  
  
“Time to let people back in, mate,” Ron went on. “Contrary to rumor, you  _didn’t_ die.” His lips quirked up in a half smile and he took a sip of his coffee, his eyes unwavering.  
  
Harry sighed. He knew that they were probably right, but that didn’t make him feel any more ready.


	3. Nasty Details

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part: 

“Morgana’s baggy arse, is that Potter?”  
  
Draco Malfoy’s head jerked up from where he’d been concentrating on lacing his high topped black skates. He’d only been back in England for a few days, but Pansy and Blaise had arrived at the Manor that morning, bustling him off for a day of ‘getting reacquainted’. He supposed after nearly a decade of life abroad they did have some catching up to do, even though they had once been his closest friends. He’d just never imagined that they’d be doing it on the ice rink in front of Somerset House, surrounded by Muggles.  
  
But Pansy had a new scarlet velvet jacket and black wool skirt, and wanted to show off both to their best advantage. And with the dark mink hat nestled on her sable bob, she did look darling. When they’d been children, ice skating had been a special joy. He just hoped he didn’t fall flat on his arse and completely humiliate himself. But now, the idea of getting a look at his one time rival had him scanning the crowded ice rink.  
  
“Where?” he asked, turning his head. “Where is Potter?”  
  
Pansy pointed a leather gloved finger, and Draco stretched his neck to the side and… his eyes opened wide.  _That_  was Potter? He was taller and broader, if those shoulders encased in a black pea coat were anything to go by, and his slightly shaggy hair curled beneath the edges of a white skull cap. But his jaw was square and his skin was a tawny gold, and his thighs stretched the material of a well worn pair of denims. He was leaning against the boards, and Draco found himself wishing that the man would turn around so that he could check out the rear view.  
  
“Of course, he’s surrounded on all sides by bloody Gryffindors,” Pansy went on snidely. “Probably afraid to be seen in public without an honor guard.”  
  
Draco noticed Granger, and Weasley’s hair was certainly distinctive even from the back, and he thought that was Longbottom and the mad Lovegood creature, wearing an outfit so loud that it was almost painful to look at. They did seem to be surrounding Potter, and the second part of what Pansy had said registered. He turned to look at her.  
  
“Why would he need a guard to appear in public?”  
  
She looked at him, chocolate brown eyes wide, then lighting with malicious glee. “Oh, that’s right! You weren’t here, so you don’t know!”  
  
“Know what?” Draco asked, taking his gloves out of the pocket of his blazer and slipping them onto his hands.  
  
“That he’s been in exile for nearly a year. Hasn’t appeared in public that I’m aware of in months! Oh, it was a  _huge_  scandal,” she said, savoring each word. “Apparently, the golden boy has a few skeletons in his closet. Closet!” She giggled merrily. “I do find myself so amusing sometimes.”  
  
“It’s a good thing,” Blaise said darkly, lacing his skates with more force than was strictly necessary. “Not many others do.”  
  
“Oh, don’t be such a snot,” Pansy said sharply. “Try to tell me you didn’t find the whole thing terribly funny.”  
  
Blaise shot her a dark look. “I didn’t,” he said emphatically. “I may not have liked Potter in school, but no one deserves…”  
  
“Will someone  _please_  tell me what in hell you’re arguing about?” Draco interrupted, exasperated.  
  
Blaise and Pansy stared at each other for a long moment, then Blaise sighed heavily and shook his head. “Knock yourself out, Pans,” he said, standing and shaking his pant legs down. “You’re better at being a vicious bitch than I am. I’m going to take a turn around the ice.” And with that, he turned his back and glided away. Draco turned back to Pansy, his brows raised pointedly. She leaned in with a giddy grin.  
  
“Oh, it was just too,  _too_  marvelous. You knew that the saviour had broken off with the Weaslette; that happened before you left, hadn’t it?”  
  
Draco frowned. “I think so. So what?”  
  
“Well, apparently the reason that he did was that he was inhabiting a rather large closet, hence my amusement at my closet comment. The ‘chosen one’ apparently bats for your team, darling.”  
  
Draco found that information interesting, but scarcely likely to be the cause of Pansy’s delight. Yes, homosexuality wasn’t exactly celebrated in the wizarding world, but it wasn’t ordinarily cause of one being ostracized either.  
  
“So?” he said, shrugging one shoulder.  
  
“Oh, but you don’t understand,” she went on in an excited whisper. “It was such a deep dark secret. Potter didn’t date, he wasn’t seen anywhere with anyone. There were even rumors about him perhaps being so ‘tragically scared by his wartime experiences’,” she laid the back of her hand across her forehead dramatically, “that he was considering taking religious orders. And then,” her smile grew wickedly gleeful, “suddenly, there’s an ex-lover with quite the little story to tell. Come to find out, Potter allowed himself to be duped by a ringer that Skeeter had hired, and he fell hook, line and sinker. Once he had the goods and dumped Potter, the two of them penned a book about the whole thing. And I do mean the  _whole thing_ ,” she said with a salacious grin. “Including all of their little bedroom antics. It was a raging bestseller. I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it, even in Belgium.”  
  
“I was too busy doing other things to follow gossip rags,” Draco said absently, his eyes drifting back to Potter. He was still hugging the boards, but for the first time Draco noticed that his cap was pulled low and his collar up around his face, as if he were hoping not to be recognized. This explained the group’s presence at a Muggle rink. For some reason, Potter’s defensive posture made something in the center of Draco’s chest ache. “So, the old bitch set him up,” he mused softly.  
  
“She did. I heard that there was some old score she wanted to settle, and boy, did she ever!” Pansy gripped his arm and giggled. “Isn’t that just the funniest thing?”  
  
Draco kept his eyes on Potter and realized that in the entire time he’d been watching him, he’d not seen the man smile. “Hilarious,” he said faintly, but in truth, he didn’t think he’d ever heard anything  _less_  funny in his life.


	4. An Unauthorized Biography

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part: 

_”…Harry didn’t have much experience with men before he met me,” Scott Richards said softly, his blue eyes shadowed. His handsome face was perfectly lit by the sunlight that filtered through my curtains, and it was certainly easy to see why Potter had fallen victim to his charms. “Oh, he confessed that there had been a blow-job or two in the men’s at different gay clubs, but beyond that he was almost completely naïve in the ways of man on man love.”_  Draco snorted indelicately as he read. ‘Man on man love’. That had Skeeter written all over it.  
  
 _But believe me when I tell you that it was scarcely a hardship to teach him; he’s not hard on the eyes. While he may not be the most heroically proportioned lover I’ve ever had, he was certainly one of the most enthusiastic. Nothing was too outlandish or kinky. From sex toys to restraints, Harry’s only motto seemed to be “whatever would make you happy”. But this seeming willingness to please is one of his biggest liabilities; being the other person in a relationship with someone who refuses to ever take control can be wearying, and ultimately, just boring. And who would have ever thought that Harry Potter, of all people, would turn out to be so utterly passive? There were times I would pick fights with him, just to see how far I could push him…”_  
  
Draco cursed under his breath, slamming the book closed and tossing it onto the sofa cushion next to where he sat. ‘What an arse,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘What a complete and utter arse. And Skeeter, you wretched cunt…’  
  
He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and his forehead resting on one hand, startled by how viscerally the so-called ‘tell all’ was affecting him.  
  
Of course, the moment that he’d made his excuses and left Pansy and Blaise that afternoon, he’d gone and bought the book. He’d even smirked when he’d seen the title; ‘Paper Lion, the unauthorized biography of a less than heroic hero’. Catchy, that, he’d thought ironically. But from the moment he’d cracked the cover, he’d felt somehow… unclean. The book was an unending series of snide innuendo and outrageous slander. Typical Skeeter; never tell the truth when a lie is more salacious. He might not have seen Potter in nearly a decade, but even he knew that some of it was outright crap.  
  
Potter, passive? Please. He might have been smitten and eager to please a new lover, but boring? Was the man mad? Even when Potter had been driving him spare back at Hogwarts, the one thing he had never, ever been was boring. And Draco did not believe that he’d changed so fundamentally that he was boring now. He thought back to how Potter had appeared that morning, his fingers rubbing along his forehead.  
  
He’d looked… overly cautious, was the term his mind supplied. Overly cautious… and sad. And it was the sadness that remained with Draco now, haunting him. He thought he’d seen all of Potter’s moods; angry, triumphant, taunting, even weary to his bones. But sad? That just seemed… so very wrong somehow.  
  
He sighed and picked up the thick book, thumbing through to a section in the middle where there were a series of color photos. It seemed that the paragon of virtue that Skeeter had hired had placed hidden cameras through out the flat that he and Potter had shared so that he could take ‘unstudied, candid photos’ of the notoriously private hero. In the introduction, Skeeter had gone on about this ‘uncensored view of the personal life of Harry Potter’. Draco found the entire thing an almost criminal invasion of the man’s privacy; the pictures were, if possible, even worse than the words.  
  
Of course, there were the shadowy ones taken in the bedroom, pertinent body parts covered with clunky black bars. Draco was outraged on Potter’s behalf, even while noticing that the so called ‘passive’ lover certainly didn’t seem to be in a passive position. And that he had a very nice body. But the photos that bothered Draco the most were the ones that showed Potter at his most vulnerable. Apparently, he hadn’t known that the cameras were still there, even after the bastard walked out on him. There was one of Potter, sitting on a sofa, his face in his hands. And another, of him staring toward a fireplace, and his eyes were so… horrible, that Draco couldn’t stand to look at them.  
  
The one that stayed with him, however, that kept appearing even behind his closed eyelids, was of the two men in bed, just lying there, feet entangled, the top of Potter’s head and his left eye and ear visible. The other man’s entire profile was recognizable, as if he’d been posing for a camera that he clearly knew was there, but Potter could have been almost anyone with dark hair.  
  
His hair had been very short then, Draco noticed, and he wondered if he’d grown it out to appear as different from the photos as possible. But what stuck Draco about that particular image was that the two men’s feet were close to the camera, uncovered, and tangled together. He didn’t know why it bothered him so much, but it seemed such a defenseless thing, the bottom of Potter’s feet, laid bare for the world to see. There were some things that were private, Draco thought, his ire growing. No one should be able to buy a book and stare at something that should have been tender, and personal. No wonder Potter appeared so withdrawn, he mused pensively. Who wouldn’t be, after such a fundamental violation?  
  
For the first time in a long time, Draco had an unhealthy desire to use Dark Magic. He thought that the erstwhile lover might make a nice potted plant, and he found himself wondering if transfiguring Skeeter into a tampon and slipping her into a vending machine in a woman’s loo could go undetected.


	5. Confrontation Over Chocolate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part:

“Poofter.”  
  
Draco stiffened where he stood examining the Belgium chocolates at a counter in Honeydukes, turning his head to look over his shoulder. He’d gotten used to the name calling in his youth, and he supposed the grey cloak with the white fur collar and matching hat were a wee bit over the top, but no one had had the nerve to insult him to his face in years. But as his eyes fell on a tableau down an intersecting aisle, he realized that the insult hadn’t been aimed at him, after all.  
  
He’d thought about him almost obsessively for the last few days, but he was still startled to see Potter standing in the middle of the aisle, a small package clutched in his hand, his back straight and his jaw stiff. Standing around him were three youngsters, little more than boys actually, men in body only. Draco could see the hint of acne on one’s face, and the pitiful straggling of an attempted mustache on another. Late teens at best. Potter was twice the man they were, but there was courage, and stupidity apparently, in numbers.  
  
“Let me pass,” Potter said softly, his teeth so tight that his jaw scarcely moved.  
  
“What’s the matter,  _hero_ ,” the one with the bad skin said snidely. “Not much fond of the name, eh?”  
  
“Let me pass,” Potter repeated more firmly, his eyes narrowed. Draco felt a slight shiver run down his spine. If Potter had given him that look, he’d have moved aside. But then, he was brighter than most men, and certainly brighter than these.  
  
“I don’t think so,” the brash teen said again. “I think—“ he reached out and poked Potter in the sternum with his finger, “—that you’re scared. Faggot.”  
  
Had he not put his hands on Potter, Draco might have stayed out of it. But that insulting poke in the middle of the hard chest made his teeth clench.  
  
“And I think,” he drawled, walking toward the quartet, “that you’re almost painfully thick.”  
  
Four pairs of eyes swiveled toward him, the green ones wide with both surprise and recognition.  
  
“Oh, and who are you?” Big mouth said, squaring his shoulders. “His boyfriend? From the way that you’re dressed, I think it’s pretty clear you’re just another cock-sucker.” He nudged his friends jovially. One of them chuckled stupidly, the other eyed Draco with dawning horror. Draco fixed his gaze on him, his slow smile predatory. Oh, this one looked exactly like his older brother had at sixteen. He watched as every bit of color leeched from the pale face.  
  
“Just another cock sucker?” Draco said in amusement, his gaze lingering on the frightened eyes before swinging to the ring-leader. “Now, there you would be wrong. I do fancy cock, as a matter of fact, but if I deign to suck a man’s prick, he knows he’s had the best. My fellatio is a religious experience, young man.” He eyed the boy up and down with distaste. “Not that I’d be letting your pitiful twig anywhere near my mouth. For all I know, it’s as spotty as your face.”  
  
The youth’s mouth dropped open in outrage, and he took a step forward, his fist clenched. Draco saw Potter take a step towards him in his peripheral vision.  
  
“Don’t!” his frightened friend said, grabbing his arm. “For fuck’s sake, that’s  _Malfoy._ ”  
  
Potter subsided slightly, but Draco felt the tension radiating from him.  
  
The louder boy scowled. “So what? Who the hell is Malfoy?”  
  
“That,” Draco said slowly, taking a step forward, “would be me. Draco Malfoy, as it happens. And your young friend is trying to warn you that I was a Death Eater in a previous incarnation.” His eyes moved to the other young man. The third one was slowly backing away, his eyebrows near his hairline. “Isn’t that right, young Nott? And how is big brother?”  
  
Cornelius Nott looked as if he were about to piss himself. “We need to go,” he hissed to his friend. “This is stupid.”  
  
“It is stupid,” Draco agreed, his own eyes narrowing. “Almost criminally so. And for your information,” he said, sneering at the loud mouth, “this man is almost certainly not afraid of you, you twit. He’s exercising restraint so as not to send you home to mummy in a matchbox, which he could without very much effort at all, and probably escape charges. It’s only idiots like you that seem to have forgotten what being ‘the Vanguisher of the Dark Lord’ actually  _means_.” He paused, eyeing the boy up and down in a thoroughly insulting manner. “I was there, runtlet; watched him take old Voldie down. You don’t frighten him in the slightest.”  
  
“Well,” the kid said, clearly intimidated but fighting to retain some self-control. He thrust both his chin and his skinny chest forward. “You don’t scare me, either.”  
  
Draco grinned slowly, then leaned forward and lowered his voice near the boys ear. “Oh, but I should, little man. Ask young Nott, there. I’m not a very nice person. And you’re this close,” he lifted his hand, his thumb and index fingers held about two inches apart, “to really getting on my nerves.”  
  
“Seriously, Ned,” young Nott whispered, his eyes wide. “My dad’s told me about him, and his father.” He dropped his voice even further. “Voldemort  _lived in their house,_ okay? We need to go.” He grabbed the other boys sleeve and yanked hard. The third member of their trio had wisely vanished at some point during the conversation.  
  
“I’m not afraid of these faggots,” the first boy blustered even as he was being hauled manually down the aisle. “Fucking pansies!” This was shouted over his shoulder as little Nott shoved him through the door and out into the street. The silence that lengthened in their wake was weighted.  
  
“You’d think,” Draco said finally, turning his eyes to find Potter’s on his face, “that these nitwits would come up with some new insults. Poofter, pansy. It’s all so tired.”  
  
The corner of Potter’s lips twitched. “You handled that better than I did,” he said softly.  
  
“I’ve been doing it longer,” Draco replied.  
  
Potter shifted slightly on his feet, as if embarrassed. He didn’t remember Potter himself hurling sexual slurs at him at Hogwarts, but most of the other Gryffindors had.  
  
“You’ve uhm… been out of country, haven’t you?” Potter asked, clearly keen to change the subject.  
  
“Indeed,” Draco answered. “Belgium, apprenticing with a Potions Master. Just returned this week.”  
  
“Ah.” Potter fidgeted uncomfortably with the bag of brightly wrapped candy in his hands. Draco looked at the label, and smirked.  
  
“Kisses?”  
  
Potter’s brow furrowed. “Pardon?” he sounded slightly winded, and Draco fought the urge to laugh.  
  
“The candy, Potter. They are called ‘kisses’, are they not?”  
  
Potter looked down at the bag in his hand, his expression clearing even as color filled his cheeks. “Oh, yeah. They’re Muggle. Uh… for Teddy. He really likes them, and Honeydukes is the only wizard store that carries them...” He shifted restlessly again. “Uhm, I have to go, but…” He caught Draco’s eyes, his own solemn. “Thanks for… you know. I would have felt bad if I’d had to hurt them. They’re just kids…”  
  
“They’re evil little pricks, but you’re welcome.”  
  
Potter nodded. “I never know… quite what to say when someone…” he shrugged helplessly.  
  
Draco eyed him calmly for a long moment. “I know. It gets easier.”  
  
Potter sighed. “Does it?”  
  
“Yes. In time.”  
  
Potter nodded, started to go, then hesitated and turned back. “Thank you again, Malfoy. For…” he gestured towards the door with his head.  
  
“Articulate as ever, I see,” he said dryly, but smiled. “And, you’re welcome.”  
  
Potter turned to go again, and again, stopped and looked back. “Malfoy,” he paused, studying Draco’s face for a long moment. “Welcome home.”  
  
Warmth filled Draco’s chest as he stared into the wide green eyes. “Thank you,” he murmured. “It’s nice to be back.”  
  
Potter nodded, and this time when he turned to go, he went to the counter, paid for the candy, and left the store without looking back.  
  
Draco shifted and watched him walk away along Diagon Alley, then wandered back to the expensive chocolates, his expression thoughtful.


	6. Tea and Sympathy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part: 

“That’s Teddy, when he was four.”  
  
Draco turned with the small framed photo in his hand. His mother and aunt sat on the settee near the fireplace, delicate bone china teacups balanced in their elegant hands.  
  
“May I see it, darling?” Narcissa asked, setting her tea aside and holding out her hand. Draco crossed to her and gave her the photo. “Oh, what a precious little boy!” she said fondly, her eyes studying the image of the small child bundled up in winter clothes and pushing a large snowball.  
  
Andromeda smiled wistfully. “Wasn’t he? He’s not so small anymore. He’ll be twelve next April. He’s in his first year at Hogwarts.” She looked down into her cup, her expression tinged with melancholy. “I miss him. There was always so much life in the house when he was here.”  
  
“I’m sure that you do,” Narcissa said, gently laying her hand on her sister’s knee. “I remember when Draco went to Hogwarts; I was bereft for months. But he’ll be home for the holiday soon, won’t he?”  
  
She nodded, her eyes brightening. “Yes, on the sixteenth. Only two more weeks.”  
  
Draco took the photo back from his mother and turned to set it on the mantle.  
  
“That was taken out back,” Andromeda said to him as he returned to them and settled into a fussy wing back chair with doilies on the arms. “He and Harry were making a snowman. When they came in, they were frozen through, but they had such fun.”  
  
Draco perked up. He’d promised his mother that he’d come with her to tea at his aunt’s, but he’d been about perishing of boredom. Until Potter’s name was mentioned. First reading that rancid ‘biography’, then seeing the man at Honeyduke’s had put him in the forefront of Draco’s mind.  
  
“That’s right; Potter is Theodore’s Godfather, isn’t he?” he said mildly.  
  
Andromeda nodded, smiling fondly. “He’s been so wonderful with Teddy all these years. Sometimes I think an old woman wasn’t the best choice for raising a lively little boy. Harry was invaluable to me.”  
  
“Was?” Draco asked, pouncing on not just the word, but the tone of her voice. She sounded wistful when she talked about him.  
  
She looked troubled. “We haven’t seen much of Harry since last spring. There was a… bit of nasty business with the press…”  
  
Draco nodded. “That ‘tell-all’ piece of garbage that Skeeter wrote.”  
  
Andromeda nodded, looking at Draco in approval. “Precisely! I tried to tell Harry that he had grounds to sue her; such a shocking invasion of his privacy.”  
  
“That’s precisely what I think,” Draco replied enthusiastically, ignoring the narrow-eyed speculation that had suddenly come into his mother’s gaze. “So, why didn’t he?”  
  
She frowned slightly, pondering. “There were several reasons, I think,” she answered slowly. “First, he became dreadfully ill not long after that book came out. He was in hospital for more than a week. He nearly died.”  
  
Draco’s eyes widened, and he didn’t want to study too closely why the idea of Potter dying, where once it might have filled him with unholy glee, now made it difficult for him to get a deep breath.  
  
“What was wrong with him?”  
  
“Well, he’s never been particularly good at taking care of himself. He had a series of colds that he left untreated. They turned into pneumonia. It was quite a serious case.”  
  
Draco had a mental vision of himself noticing that Potter had the sniffles and forcing him into bed with decongestants and chicken soup. Well, where had that come from?  
  
“Draco, are you all right?”  
  
He blinked and looked up to find both women studying him. “I’m… fine. Sorry. Back to Potter, Aunt. So, you think his illness was the reason he didn’t go after Skeeter and that lowlife, Richards?”  
  
She mused on that for a moment. “No,” she answered finally. “Although he was terribly sick. No, I’m afraid that the reason Harry didn’t go after them for what they’d done to him, was that on some level he thought that he deserved it.”  
  
Draco stared at her, thunderstruck. “What?” he gasped. “Why?”  
  
She shook her head sadly. “Harry didn’t have the most normal of upbringings, Draco. I don’t know how much of it you’re aware of, but when his parents were killed, he was left in the care of some Muggle relatives who never wanted him, and weren’t reserved about telling him that. They abused and neglected him, turning him into little better than a house-elf. And his Uncle.” She shuddered delicately. “Well, let’s just say he was rather outspoken in his opinions about all things, but most particularly about homosexuality.”  
  
Draco frowned, and he saw his mother give him a lingering look. His own father had been rather ‘outspoken’ about how he felt about his son’s sexual orientation. He’d never have been as open as he was if Lucius were still alive, simply out of respect for his feelings.  
  
“I don’t understand,” Draco said softly.  
  
“I know you don’t,” Andromeda said kindly. “I think, when you’re told from the time that you’re old enough to understand that you aren’t worth anything, that you start to believe it. And when you grow up hearing someone call homosexuals every vile name imaginable, you start to believe that everyone must feel that way. Imagine realizing that you’re gay after such an upbringing. I know that your father didn’t approve,” she said when Draco grimaced. “But I do believe that there is a world of difference between not approving, and voicing loudly that such ‘unnatural urges’ rendered you little better than a sexual deviate.”  
  
Draco shook his head. “I had no idea.”  
  
“He doesn’t talk about it,” Andromeda said softly. “In deference to his privacy, I probably shouldn’t be talking about it, but I’ve been so worried about him. The first time he ever let anyone in, and  _this_  happens.” She made a sound of disgust. “I’d like to take that Skeeter creature out back and set her on fire.”  
  
That startled a laugh from Draco. “I was trying to come up with some rather imaginative ways of making her pay, myself, after I’d read it. No one deserves that. No one.”  
  
Andromeda was studying him with a slight smile lifting the corners of her mouth. “I thought that you detested Harry.”  
  
Draco felt himself coloring. “Personal feelings aside, slander is slander. It isn’t right.” He shrugged. “Besides, it’s been ten years. People change.”  
  
“Yes,” Andromeda agreed. “They do.” She paused, toying with the teaspoon that lay across her saucer. “I just wish,” she mused finally, “that there was someone who could help him understand that he’s done nothing wrong, that the wrong was done to him.” She looked at Draco from the corner of her eye. “I’m sure that there must be someone out there who can help him take joy in who he is, and show him that love is love, regardless of gender.” She sighed. “He needs to laugh again. It’s been a long time.”  
  
Draco frowned, once again so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t see his mother give her sister a long, knowing look, or his aunt feign innocence as she sipped her tea.


	7. Solidarity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part (NSFW)  
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> > some space so it won't just pop on your screen  
> >  
> >  
> >  
> >  
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> >  
> >  
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> 

“Gods, this is hilarious!”  
  
“Ron, keep your voice down. Harry is still asleep, and we don’t want him to see  _that_!”  
  
“We don’t? Why not? This is classic.”  
  
“Because it might embarrass him! It’s not classic. It’s… what in the world was your brother  _thinking_?”  
  
“That it would be great publicity?”  
  
Harry rolled over on the couch, yawning widely and reaching for his glasses on the coffee table. He’d come to dinner at his friend’s the night before, and one bottle of wine had turned into three between them, and Hermione hadn’t wanted him to Apparate. Since Floo travel still made him nauseous, and he hadn’t been feeling that steady to begin with, he’d agreed to kip on their couch. Now the late morning sunlight was streaming in through their front windows and his mouth tasted as if a cat had slept in it. Sitting up, he ran his hand through his hair and scratched his jaw, grimacing at the stubble he felt beneath his fingers. His denims were lying over the arm of the sofa, and he stepped into them and stood to pull them up his legs. His tee shirt was wrinkled and he was certain he looked a mess, but there was no hope for it. Ron and Hermione had lowered their voices, but his curiosity was piqued, and he wandered towards the kitchen in his stocking feet.  
  
“What did Malfoy hope to accomplish?” Hermione sounded thoughtful.  
  
Harry stopped with his hand on the kitchen door, suddenly more alert than a man who had wakened with a hangover had any right to be. He’d thought about Malfoy quite a bit since he’d seen him. He looked… good, Harry could acknowledge. Age had improved him. He’d grown into his pointed features and he had a polish reminiscent of his father, only… softer, somehow. He was still thin and angular, but it looked good on him. As had that fussy white fur hat on his nearly white hair.  
  
“Well, he’s right, isn’t he?” Ron was saying. “I think he makes some really good points, here.”  
  
“I suppose,” Hermione replied grudgingly. “But did he have to do it in such a… crass manner? Honestly.”  
  
“He did it so that they couldn’t help but pay attention to him, Hermione. And I’d say it worked…”  
  
Harry pushed open the swinging door and stepped into the bright kitchen, and both of his friends looked up at him, Ron grinning, and Hermione looking guilty as she tried to hide the  _Daily Prophet_  behind her back.  
  
“Too late,” Harry said dryly, holding out his hand. “I heard you. You might as well let me see it.”  
  
Ron looked smug as he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the counter, but Hermione looked torn.  
  
“Harry, honestly, it isn’t that big a thing.”  
  
“Oh, it’s a pretty big thing,” Ron said dryly, and Hermione elbowed him sharply in the ribs. He grunted and rubbed the spot, sending her a wry look.  
  
“Why don’t you let me decide, all right?” Harry persisted. Hermione still hesitated. “Sweetheart, I can leave and go buy one of my own, if you’d rather.”  
  
She stared into his eyes, her own troubled. “I’m afraid you’re going to be upset.”  
  
“I’m a big boy, Hermione.”  
  
She still hesitated a moment longer, then handed the paper reluctantly to Harry. He took it from her and turned to sit at the kitchen table, stopping mid-stride when he saw the picture that took up about a third of page one.  
  
It was… well, there was no other word for it. It was a cock. A big one, made of snow. Quite artfully rendered, actually, with veins and a sculpted mushroom head and two perfectly round balls at the base on either side. Harry blinked, then settled slowly into one of the wooden chairs.  
  
Beneath the photo was the caption:  ** _Malfoy Heir makes statement with snow sculpture._**  There was an article immediately beneath both.  
  
_Draco Malfoy, twenty-nine year old son of deceased former Death Eater Lucius Malfoy and heir to the vast Malfoy fortune, wearing what appeared to be a mink coat and matching hat, chose the small park in front of the Ministry of Magic to make what he calls ‘a comment on the current climate for homosexuals in Wizarding Britain’.”_  
  
“It’s outrageous,” he said to the gathered media. “I’ve been gone for nearly ten years, and come back to find that the Americans weren’t the only ones who engaged in ‘witch hunts’. Only here, instead of arresting and trying the victim, we assassinate his character in print and libel him in what is euphemistically referred to as an ‘unauthorized biography’.”  
  
Malfoy shook his head, looking at the crowd that had gathered to view his ‘artwork’. “I’m astounded at the short memories of people here,” he went on. “How easy it is, in the comfort of your homes, to forget what you owe the man who was maligned by this bit of yellow journalism. Harry Potter made the world as it is now possible. Without him, every pure-blood would be a puppet and every Muggle-born would be dead. And, if you’ll recall, I can speak to that with a certain amount of authority. And he’s repaid for his sacrifices by having his privacy invaded and his personal life turned into fodder for an opportunistic low-life scum and a woman who wouldn’t know the truth if it walked up and hit her in the mouth. So, he’s gay. So what? Does that change what he did, or what he accomplished? I think the reason that this so-called bit of journalism hasn’t been resigned to a bonfire where it belongs, along with the author, is that it’s almost impossible for people to accept that a queer saved their arses.”  
  
When asked what his snow art had to do with his impassioned comments, Malfoy smiled.  
  
“This is just my own personal Declaration of Solidarity, as it were. I’m a gay man, and I’m not ashamed of it. And Potter shouldn’t have to ashamed of it, either.”  
  
And with that, Malfoy stepped back and waved his wand, and his phallic sculpture emitted a shower of multi-colored fireworks from the tip to mixed reactions from the crowd. This resulted in his being taken into custody by a team of Auror’s for creating a public disturbance and erecting an obscene display.  
  
Pyrotechnics provided by Weasley Wizard Wheezes.”  
  
Harry could feel heat filling his face even as he could feel his friend’s eyes on him. He read the article again, and then again. His hand came up to cover his mouth, and he closed his eyes, shaking his head from side to side as something he hadn’t felt in a long time began to bubble inside of him, like champagne bubbles, and he fought to keep it from bursting out of him.  
  
“I  _told_  you we shouldn’t have showed it to him,” he heard Hermione hiss at Ron. “This isn’t funny!”  
  
But it was. And Harry lost the battle with his composure as he began to laugh. Softly at first, but then louder, and longer. He laughed so long and so hard that he was bent at the waist with his hands on his knees, and there were tears running down his face. He was gasping for air, and just as his hilarity would subside, it would hit him again in another wave.  
  
“Erecting an obscene display…” he managed, and Ron began to laugh with him until they were both gasping weakly and holding their sides.  
  
Hermione had watched them with incredulity, her hands on her hips. “I think you’re both quite mad,” she said finally. Harry continued to chuckle as he pushed himself to his feet and headed for the living room to collect the rest of his clothes and his shoes.  
  
“Where’re you going?” Ron called after him, coming to the kitchen door.  
  
“I’m going to bail him out,” he replied with a grin. “It’s the least I can do. Call it my own personal declaration of solidarity.”  
  
He was still laughing when he stepped into the Floo.


	8. Cocoa and Gingerbread

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part:

“Up ya go, Malfoy.”  
  
Draco looked up from where he had reclined on the narrow bunk, his hands behind his head.  
  
“What?” He said, blinking quickly. “Why?”  
  
He’d been in the holding cell for about twelve hours, but he wasn’t that fussed about it. He’d told his mother to leave him there for at least a day; that way his declaration would carry more weight.  
  
“You been bailed out, that’s why,” the guard responded, sliding open the cell door.  
  
Draco sat up and sighed in exasperation. He’d told his mother to wait; usually she listened to him, but the idea of him being in a cell might have been more than she could take. He did remember the years that his father was in Azkaban; he supposed he couldn’t blame her, even if the almost cozy holding cells at the Ministry bore no resemblance to the dank and cold of the island prison.  
  
He sat on the edge of the bunk and pulled on his Italian boots, bending to zip them closed, then standing. The guard shot him a wry look, then waved him out the door.  
  
“Seems you have some friends in pretty high places,” the guard said conversationally. “I understand he even got your bail reduced.”  
  
Draco shot him a quick look. “He?” he asked in confusion. The guard smirked but didn’t respond.  
  
Draco frowned. Blaise, then. Well, he hadn’t told his friend what he was up to; he probably thought bailing him out was a favor. He’d have to make sure that the funds were transferred directly to his vault at Gringott’s…  
  
He walked through the door to the front desk, and the Auror behind the counter was laying out his black fur coat and hat, looking distinctly uncomfortable.  
  
“Careful with those,” Draco said glibly. “They’re worth more than you are.”  
  
“No doubt,” the man answered dryly. “Sign here, please.” He shoved a sheet of parchment to Draco and handed him a quill, and Draco scrawled his name before shoving it back. He picked up his hat and his coat when the man behind the desk spoke again.  
  
“He’ll have to show up for his hearing,” he said to someone apparently standing behind Draco, “or you’ll lose your money.”  
  
“I’m sure that’s not a problem.”  
  
Draco whirled on the spot, his coat and hat in his arms, and his eyes wide in his face. Standing behind him, grinning sheepishly, his hands shoved in the front pockets of a short leather jacket, his hair wild and a two day growth of beard on his square chin, was Potter. And Draco felt as if someone had slugged him in the stomach. No one should look that fucking sexy with stubble, but he did.  
  
“Potter,” he gasped, his hands tightening in the soft fur of his coat. “What are you doing here?”  
  
“Showing solidarity,” Potter quipped, his grin widening. “I couldn’t leave you sitting in a cell after I read the papers, could I?”  
  
Draco brightened. “It made the papers?”  
  
“Front page,” Potter affirmed, his lips twitching. “Above the fold. Including art.”  
  
Draco pumped his fist triumphantly. “Yes!” he crowed. “I’ll bet Skeeter is messing her knickers.”  
  
“I imagine,” Potter replied wrly. “Can I help you with that?” He gestured towards Draco’s coat. Draco held it out for him to take, then turned and allowed it to be settled on his shoulders. “Nice,” Potter murmured, his hands stroking down Draco’s arms, and he felt a chill run the length of his spine. Straightening to cover his reaction, he turned and pulled the fur hat onto his head. “How many of those do you have?” Potter asked, gesturing to the hat.  
  
“Six,” Draco responded promptly. “But I doubt I’ll be wearing the fuscia one in London.”  
  
Potter laughed as he gestured towards the door, and Draco swung out of it in front of him. They fell into step side by side as they left the building, their feet crunching in the snow.  
  
“That was quite decent of you,” Draco said, glancing to his side as he slipped his cold hands into his pockets. They’d been cold all night, and the fur felt wonderful. “But my mother would have come to get me by tonight.”  
  
Potter shrugged. “I felt it was the least I could do, after such an impassioned show of support.” He chuckled. “With fireworks, no less.”  
  
“Weasley is a genius, I’ll give him that,” Draco said. “Creating fireworks that don’t melt snow is a special skill.”  
  
“I think you’ll find George is full of them.” This was said wryly, but with a healthy dose of fondness. He shot another look at Draco. “You’re quite mad, you know.”  
  
Draco swept the hat from his head and executed an elaborate bow. “One mad queer, at your service.” He restored the hat to his head at a jaunty angle. Potter’s grin spread.  
  
“Are you hungry?” he asked. “Did they feed you in there?”  
  
“As if I’d eat what they brought,” Draco huffed. “But, as a matter of fact, they didn’t offer.” He paused. “I’m really not hungry, but I’m frozen through. Tea wouldn’t be amiss.”  
  
Potter shot him a shy look. “How about cocoa? There’s a place near here…”  
  
Draco sent him a slight smile. “I haven’t had cocoa in years. How very seasonal of you, Potter.” His grin widened. “Sounds perfect.”  
  
The shop wasn’t far, and Potter held the door for him as they entered from the street. It wasn’t crowded, but he could tell by the faces that turned their direction that word of this little meeting was bound to get out. There was an avidness in people’s expressions as they watched them. One woman even reached for her mobile, until Draco sent her a death glare. Potter didn’t seem to notice, and Draco found himself wondering if he were always so oblivious, or if he’d just trained himself to ignore the attention over the years. He rather thought that the second option was more likely.  
  
Potter ordered their cocoa, and a plate of gingerbread even though Draco protested that he wasn’t hungry.  
  
“I am,” Potter said lightly, and paid the wide-eyed server. He picked up both mugs and the plate, a balancing act that required a bit of skill, and led the way to a table in the corner.  
  
“I think you missed your calling, Potter,” Draco said, removing his hat as he took a seat. “You handle those plates like a waiter.”  
  
Potter grinned shyly. “Perhaps I should explore that as a career option.”  
  
“Pick the right venue, and I’m sure the tips would be good,” Draco quipped. Potter slid a mug across the table to him, then picked the other up, cradling it in his hands. It was a heavy white mug, and a homemade square cut marshmallow floated on the frothy chocolate. He had very nice hands, Draco thought as he studied them. Sturdy, stong, the nails short and neat. There was something inherently masculine about them, in contrast to what he thought of his own hands; long of finger, tapered of nail, they looked like his mother’s. Potter’s hands looked like a man’s hands, and Draco felt another chill run the length of his spine. What would it feel like, he wondered, to have those hands on him?  
  
It would be heaven. And suddenly he wanted that; very much.


	9. One Mad Queer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part: 

“So, you going to tell us what happened?”  
  
Ron and Hermione had shown up at his door that morning under auspices of returning his overcoat and gloves, but he knew that they were actually there due to the headline that appeared in that mornings  _Daily Prophet_.  
  
 ** _Potter seen in cozy tête-à-tête with Malfoy Heir_**  it screamed in a headline, once again, above the fold, accompanied by a photo of the two of them at the small café table. He hadn’t seen the photographer, but then, he rarely did. They actually had looked sort of cozy, he supposed. They’d been smiling at each other, something that some people, he was sure, had thought they’d never see. He grinned, thinking how tickled Draco would be. Draco… He found himself unable to shake the grin, even when thinking of his long time rival as Draco for the first time, rather than Malfoy. He enjoyed him, he wasn’t afraid to acknowledge. He was funny. And quick as hell. And… well, there was no other word for it; he was gorgeous. No one should look that great after spending the night in jail.  
  
He opened the door further and stepped aside, letting his friends into his living room. There was a fire burning brightly in the fireplace, and the scent of fresh brewed coffee in the air.  
  
“I bailed him out,” he answered casually, leading the way into the kitchen. “And then we had a cup of cocoa. And that was it.”  
  
“That was it?” Hermione asked, leaning against the counter as Harry set out three mugs for coffee. “He didn’t tell you why he’d done it?”  
  
Harry shrugged. “I think he did it for all the reasons he said in the paper. And frankly, we didn’t really talk about it.”  
  
“You didn’t talk about it?” She persisted. “Well, then what did you talk about?”  
  
“His fur hats,” Harry answered, grinning as he poured coffee . “He has six. One of them is fuscia.” He turned to hand her a mug, and found her staring at him, her brow furrowed. “What?”  
  
She took the coffee and set in on the counter, her eyes clinging to his. “Harry, you had coffee…”  
  
“Cocoa,” he corrected, lifting his cup for a sip.  
  
“Fine,  _cocoa_ ,” she said in exasperation. “With Malfoy. Draco Malfoy.”  
  
He looked at her over the brim of his cup. “I know who he is, Hermoine.”  
  
“And all you talked about,” she went on as if he hadn’t spoken, “was his  _hats_.”  
  
“Oh, and his fur coats,” he added, fighting a smile. “He actually has nine of those. The chinchilla is his favorite, because it matches his eyes.” Her mouth dropped open, and she looked so flabbergasted that he finally gave in to a chuckle. “Hermione, we had a drink and some cake, and we talked, and we laughed. That’s it. Nothing earth moving, nothing nefarious. He’s mad as a hatter, and he made me laugh. Okay?”  
  
She still studied him as if he’d grown a second head.  
  
“What?” he said in exasperation.  
  
“You don’t find it… odd?” She said hesitantly.  
  
“I find it odd as hell.” He crossed to the kitchen table and pulled out a chair and sat, his mug cradled between his hands. “But then, not much about my life has been normal for nearly a year, now, has it?”  
  
She crossed to him, taking a chair next to his. “Harry,” she said softly. “I know you had fun, and that you thought what he did was funny…” She hesitated. “But, this is Malfoy we’re talking about.”  
  
He sighed, shaking his head. “It was cocoa, Hermione. That’s it. Relax, we’re not going steady.”  
  
Ron picked up his coffee and crossed to the table, pulling out another chair and sitting in it. “Give it a rest, Hermione,” he said bluffly. “He had a good time. Which is a  _good_  thing, remember?” He gave her a pointed look and sipped, and she subsided with a twist of her lips.  
  
A scratching sound filled the winter sun lit room, and Harry lifted his head and looked toward the window. Scratching at the glass was a handsome eagle owl, feathered horns alert and pointed above deep amber eyes. He fluttered his black wings and pecked at the glass with his peak.  
  
Harry pushed back his chair and stood, crossing the kitchen and opening the window. The bird flew in and landed on the counter, promptly lifting his right leg. There was a small square box attached with green velvet ribbon, a tightly rolled scroll affixed to the top. Harry took the owls cargo, then offered him an owl treat from a plate on the sill. The bird studied it for a moment, delicately selected a liver flavored one, and flew away.  
  
Harry closed the window absently, his eyes on the box on the counter. Before he opened it, he slipped the scroll free and uncurled it.  
  
 _Potter,_  it said.  _Just thought you might appreciate this small token of my thanks for bailing me out, and for escorting me to that very ‘cozy’ little shop for cocoa. I do wish they’d photographed me from my other side; it’s much better. Regardless, I think you’ll find this appropriate under the circumstances. Next time, my treat._  
  
D. Malfoy.  
  
He didn’t know that he was already grinning as he laid the scroll aside and opened the lid of the small box. Inside wrapped in white tissue was a coffee mug, white with a black handle and slender black painted line around the ceramic rim. When he lifted it free from the box, he turned it in his hand and began to laugh. Painted on the side were two gingerbread men in red Santa hats, jolly icing grins and dots for buttons in place. And they were, quite clearly, holding hands.  
  
“What is it?” Hermione asked, studying the mug. Harry showed it to her.  
  
“A gift, from one mad queer.” He laughed again, then turned it back and studied the painted figures fondly, his thumb moving over the spot where their cookie hands were joined.  
  
He didn’t see the concerned look that Hermione shot Ron, or that he rolled his eyes and shook his head in response.


	10. Deck the Halls With...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part:

“Draco, darling.”  
  
He was reclining on the sofa, his head on one end and his stocking feet on the other, a copy of the  _Daily Prophet_  in his hands and a smirk on his face, when his mother came to the sitting room door. He started to secure the paper at his side, then saw that she was holding a copy in one hand, her other propped on her still shapely hip.  
  
She held it up so that he could see the photo, one eyebrow inching toward her hairline.  
  
He sighed softly, folding the paper in half before lifting his feet and turning to sit languidly. He shrugged, choosing to continue the unspoken conversation. It was far preferable to being scolded, but he knew it couldn’t last.  
  
“I believe your exact words were; ‘I was bailed out by a  _friend_ ’.”  
  
“And so I was.”  
  
Her expression grew even more incredulous as she came into the room. “And since when are you and Harry Potter ‘friends’?”  
  
Draco tried to act casually, but he could feel heat spreading up his neck and through his cheeks. “Well, it’s not like we’re strangers; I’ve known him for years.”  
  
“Why, yes.” She smirked as she took a wing-backed chair across from him. “And you’ve always been so terribly fond of him. I kept wondering why you’d never invited him ‘round for tea.” Draco rolled his eyes even as her knowing expression deepened. “And of course, the fact that he’s physically matured quite nicely has nothing whatsoever to do with yesterday’s sudden act of altruism.” She held up the photo so that Draco could see it again; as if he hadn’t been staring at it for the last hour.  
  
Potter was smiling shyly at him across the small café table, and Draco’s breath had caught when he’d first seen it. Gods, the man was gorgeous. All broad shoulders and tousled hair and stubbled chin. He wanted to eat him on toast. Or just… well, no, he couldn’t continue that thought with his mother in the room.  
  
“I think I should be offended that you think the only thing I’d be interested in was his physical attributes,” he said wryly. She grinned brightly, and he groaned inwardly.  
  
“So you  _are_  interested in him!” she said triumphantly. “I wondered what all of that was about at Andie’s the other day. I didn’t think you’d been home long enough to even see him.”  
  
Draco sighed. There was no help for it now. “I saw him when I went ice skating with Blaise and Pansy. He was there with some friends…”  
  
“Um-hum,” she murmured, turning the paper and looking at the photo again. “He has turned into a handsome thing, even though he needs a shave. He looks very like his father; James Potter always was too good-looking for his own good.”  
  
Draco angled his head to one side. “You knew James Potter?”  
  
“Of course I did. All of the girls at Hogwarts knew James Potter, but he only ever had eyes for Evans.” Her eyes narrowed. “And you can stop trying to change the subject. I’m on to you. Explain, if you please.”  
  
Draco leaned back into the corner of the sofa, his arms crossed. “Mother, I’m a bit old to be ‘explaining myself’ to you. Didn’t the statute of limitations on that run out sometime in my  _early_  twenties?”  
  
“You weren’t here for you ‘early’ twenties,” she sniffed. “I’m just making up for lost time. We’ve never been able to discuss… what you found attractive.”  
  
His lips twisted wryly. “Well, that was scarcely a conversation that Father wanted to be included in, now was it?” Her expression grew slightly melancholy as her fingers curled the edge of the paper, which made Draco feel guilty. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice lowered. “That was tactless.”  
  
“No, it’s true,” she replied quickly, her eyes lifting to his. “He never did understand, or feel comfortable with it. But he always loved you.”  
  
Draco wasn’t so sure about that, but there was no point in wounding her. “I know, dearest,” he said instead.  
  
“If you’d rather not discuss… your personal life with me, that’s all right…”  
  
He shook his head. Ever the Slytherin princess, his mother. She knew he couldn’t bear to hurt her. But he did hesitate, for just a moment.  
  
“I won’t lie to you,” he said finally. “I do find Potter… extremely attractive. And I do believe that what Skeeter did to him is unconscionable.”  
  
“I agree with you,” she responded quickly. “That odious woman. What a horrible thing to do to someone.”  
  
His heart warmed at her stern expression. “He’s actually… very nice.”  
  
She studied his face. “Do you think he returns your interest?”  
  
“No idea,” he said lightly, but he rather thought that he did. He hoped that he did. “I think that remains to be seen.”  
  
“Master Draco, sir?”  
  
Draco looked toward the door and saw one of the house-elves standing just outside of the threshold respectfully.  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“There’s being a delivery for you, sir.”  
  
Draco frowned slightly. “Well, bring it here, then.”  
  
The little elf glanced over its shoulder towards the foyer. “I am thinking that Master Draco should be seeing it before Marki is bringing it inside, sir.”  
  
Draco’s frown deepened as he pushed himself up from the sofa, aware that his mother stood as well. When he walked through the door and headed for the entrance to the Manor, she followed him. When he arrived there, however, the entry way was vacant save for the large round table with lavish flower arrangement that always stood just under a massive crystal chandelier. He turned back to the elf.  
  
“I don’t see anything.”  
  
“It’s being outside, sir.”  
  
Draco scowled as he crossed to one of the massive double doors and pulled it open, then stood gobsmacked in the doorway, staring at what was waiting on his front porch.  
  
It was a fully lit Christmas tree, at least seven feet in height. But it was not green. The branches, the trunk, even the fluttering fairies within the boughs, were bright pink.  
  
He stared at it, his mouth slightly agape. What in hell?  
  
“Good heavens,” his mother gasped when she came to his side. “Isn’t that… festive.”  
  
“This came with it, sir.”  
  
He looked down when the squeaky voice came near his knee, and saw Marki holding a scroll, around which was tied a bright red ribbon. He took it and slipped the bow free, his eyes still on the extraordinary tree. Finally, he tore them away to read the note.  
  
 _Malfoy,_  it read.  _I saw this, and the first thing that went through my mind was that you’d said you didn’t think you could wear your fuchsia hat in London. I figured with this tree in the room, the hat would just be a matching accessory.  
  
Happy Christmas,  
  
H. Potter. _  
  
And then written further down was;  _By the way, I was wondering if you might be available for dinner tomorrow evening?_  
  
Draco read the message through twice, then began to smile. “Oh, well done, Potter,” he mused softly. “Well done, indeed.”  
  
“Harry Potter sent you this… tree?” His mother said in surprise. Draco almost laughed at her incredulous tone.  
  
“Yes, he did,” Draco laughed, turning to look for a quill and ink so that he could answer the note.  
  
“Master Draco, sir,” Marki called. “What are you wanting me to be doing with the tree?”  
  
Draco paused just long enough to shoot a grin over his shoulder. “Oh, you can Apparate that right up to my sitting room, Marki,” he answered. “I think it will look wonderful in the bay window. Don’t you, Mother?”  
  
She looked between Draco and the tree, her expression startled. “Well… I…”  
  
It was such an unusual occurrence to see his mother lost for words that Draco could only chuckle as he turned.  
  
“Draco?”  
  
He paused and looked back to find Narcissa studying him with a slight smile.  
  
“Yes, Mother?”  
  
“I do believe that you can assume that the interest is mutual.”  
  
She smiled coyly, and Draco felt his cheeks heat with color, but he returned her smile as he made his way to his study.  
  



	11. First Date Nerves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part:

Harry stood just across the street from the elegant Victorian Inn, his gloved hands in the pockets of his black over-coat, his eyes scanning up and down the nearly deserted street. A light snow was falling, and the stately old home looked beautiful with the small trees out front lit, the garlands on the porch railing, the candles burning in the windows. It was a Muggle establishment, named  _Angelique’s_. Hermione had recommended it because the food was supposedly wonderful, even though she hadn’t been thrilled about the idea of who he was actually taking. And, for about the hundredth time, he wondered if she wasn’t right. What was he thinking?  
  
He was nervous, he could acknowledge. After all it was the first time he’d been on a date in over a year; the first time he’d been on a real  _first_  date, ever. Scott had picked him up in a club; they’d never really gotten to the ‘finding out about each other over dinner’ stage; they’d pretty much started out with sex. Harry often wondered if he’d have been more aware of the person Scott actually was if they’d spent a bit more time talking, and a bit less time shagging. But he was also prepared to admit that Hermione might be right about him; he wasn’t very discerning where other people’s motives were concerned. He didn’t think that Malfoy had some sort of nefarious intent; it was just dinner. But with their history, what the hell was he doing there to begin with? He fiddled with the fringe of his cashmere scarf, replaying all of Hermione’s arguments and worrying that he was making a huge mistake.  
  
Everything that could go wrong played itself out in his mind; he was lousy with small talk. He and Malfoy had been okay over cocoa, but that had been impromptu. This was a date; he’d never been much good at those. He’d suggested a Muggle establishment because he thought it might help him relax to know that people wouldn’t recognize him and stare. He kind of hoped that they could get through their dinner without being photographed. But that meant Muggle food, and Muggle money, and he didn’t know how much Draco knew about either. Although, he hadn’t seemed bothered by the choice of restaurant during the teasing notes they’d sent back and forth…  
  
 _Why, yes, Potter,_  he’d written to the dinner invitation.  _I do **eat** , after all. What did you have in mind_  
  
 _I hear there’s a lovely Muggle Inn in Wiltshire, not far from the Manor as a matter of fact. If you’d rather not do Muggle, we could perhaps try something in Hogsmeade…_  
  
 _Would this be Angelique’s? Heavens, Potter, who knew you’d an epicurean bone in your body…_  
  
It had all sounded light and casual via owl post, but did he actually  _know_  what he was doing?  
  
Harry slipped his finger under the collar of his button down, thinking that maybe he was over-dressed. Hermione had stressed that it was a ‘nice’ place, four stars, and even as she’d frowned over his choice of companion, she’d helped him pick out what he was wearing. When he’d looked at himself in the full length mirror, he’d thought he looked pretty good. The dark suit made him look tall and lean, the white shirt made his skin look tan, the dark green tie matched his eyes. Hermione had struggled with his hair, and by the time she’d finished, he’d thought it actually looked pretty good. He’d given himself a very close shave, so his square jaw and lean cheeks were free of stubble. And he’d put on cologne, something he hadn’t done in a very long time. But now, in his suit and his overcoat and his leather gloves and his dark green cashmere scarf, he was very much afraid he looked like a middle aged banker.  
  
He took and released a slow breath, and looked up and down the street again. He’d been early, but the time for Malfoy to join him had come and gone, and he’d not heard the distinctive sound of Apparition. Maybe he wasn’t going to come after all, he thought with a sinking in his stomach. Maybe Malfoy had just set him up so that he could have a good laugh over it with his friends. Gods, if he’d been an idiot again, Harry thought, he’d hole himself up at the farm and never leave. He could even have food brought in, he thought a bit frantically. He could ride out the winter in seclusion, and then in the spring…  
  
“Potter?”  
  
He startled and turned, his breath catching in his throat. Standing not four feet behind him was Malfoy, a hesitant expression on his handsome face, and Harry could only stare.  
  
He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting. Every time he’d seen Malfoy since he returned from Belgium he’d been wearing some outrageous fur ensemble or another. Half of him had almost expected the man to show up with the fuscia fur hat on his fair hair. He’d been wrong.  
  
Malfoy’s hair was lightly styled, some of the front over his brow, most of it brushed off of his angular face to reveal his slightly pointed jaw and his small ears. He wasn’t wearing a hat, and the nearby streetlight picked up the glowing blond of his hair, the snowflakes clinging to the shining strands glittering in the soft light. He was wearing an overcoat as well, either navy or black, Harry couldn’t tell which, over a grey suit that appeared to be silk. There was a white scarf around his neck, but Harry could see his light button-down and dark blue tie, the material gleaming in the light. He looked… like an add out of Gentleman’s Quarterly, and Harry could only stare.  
  
“You look… amazing,” he finally managed. Malfoy’s full lips quirked up on one side.  
  
“I didn’t think the Muggle’s were ready for me in fur accents,” he said wryly, and Harry felt some of his apprehension fade. “You look quite fetching yourself,” Malfoy added, and Harry knew he was blushing. “You clean up nicely.”  
  
“I had help,” he admitted.  
  
“Well, do tell Mrs. Weasley that I approve.” He studied Harry in a thoroughly flattering manner from his head to his toes and back again, his eyes warm. “I whole heartedly approve.”  
  
They stared at each other for a moment longer, the snow falling silently around them, before Harry remembered himself and gestured across the street. “We have a reservation,” he said, angling his head. “Hermione tells me the food is wonderful, and that they’ve got a rather extensive wine list. She was fairly certain that would impress you.”  
  
“Well, given that I’m already impressed by her efforts as stylist, I’m simply going to have to assume she’s right about that as well.” Malfoy eyed him, assessing. “I confess I’m somewhat surprised she let you out of her sight, knowing who you were meeting.”  
  
“Her  _incarcerous_  isn’t what it used to be,” Harry quipped. “I can get out of it wandless in my sleep.”  
  
“Ahh,” Malfoy nodded, clearly fighting a grin. “Good to know. I’ll make a note of it.”  
  
“You do that.”  
  
They looked at each other for a moment longer, and then Harry turned, angling his head toward the Inn. “Shall we?”  
  
Malfoy nodded, and they fell into step side by side, heading across the quiet street. As they walked, their elbows brushed and Harry caught a whiff of a light, woodsy cologne. He inhaled subtly, his heart rate picking up. Gods, the man even smelled good.


	12. Malfoy's Neither Fawn... Nor Share

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part:

The entryway of the inn was warm, and fragrant… and surprisingly crowded. Several people turned and looked their way as they entered, and even though the interested looks they received made him feel vaguely uncomfortable (he always felt that way when Muggles looked at him; even if they didn’t know that he was a wizard, he felt a bit as if he were on display in the rare animal enclosure at the zoo) Draco lifted his chin and returned them coolly.  
  
“I didn’t think it would be this busy,” Potter said, glancing around.  
  
“They received an excellent review in the Holiday Dining section of the Times,” Draco responded softly. “I’m not surprised.”  
  
“You read the Times?” Potter asked, a slight grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. His very full, mobile mouth, Draco couldn’t help but notice.  
  
“I do,” he responded wrly. “Along with Witch Weekly, and Horse and Hound.”  
  
Potter’s responding smile revealed his teeth, and very nice teeth they were, Draco couldn’t help but notice. Straight, white, even. He had such a fondness for white teeth…  
  
“I’ll go see how long it’s going to be,” Potter said, gesturing towards the elegant cherry wood desk that seemed to be serving as the hostess station, if the two women in the lovely Victorian period gowns behind it were anything to go by.  
  
“I’ll wait just over there,” Draco gestured to a paneled corner beyond two burgundy leather banquettes that lined the wall, most of the cushioned seats full. Just in the corner, however, there was space near the wall.  
  
“I’ll find you,” Potter said, then pushed politely through the milling crowd.  
  
Draco made his way to the corner, slipping the heavy wool coat from his shoulders and folding it over his arm. He nodded briefly to several people as he passed, noticing that this seemed to be a very well-healed group. Neither he nor Potter was over-dressed in their suits. Several women wore cocktail dresses and expensive jewels; most of the men sported at least sports coats and ties. He finally reached the corner and turned, pausing to examine the extensively lit garland that looped along the heavy woodwork. There were small multi-colored lights interwoven with the branches, and the effect was very pretty. Not as pretty as fairy lights, but not a bad facsimile.  
  
He turned and leaned back into the corner just as Potter reappeared through the crowd. He was no longer wearing his heavy over coat, and Draco got his first clear look at him without it. And felt his mouth go just a bit dry.  
  
The black suit the man was wearing was perfectly tailored. Granger’s work, no doubt, he thought as he studied the cut across the broad shoulders, the way the jacket tapered in at his narrow waist and framed his slender hips, stopping at the perfect place at the top of his thighs. The trousers had a knife pleat and were very sharp, the white shirt made his skin glow tawny gold, and that emerald green tie was a perfect match for his eyes. Even his hair seemed just right; tousled, yet not wild, the fringe framing his face and masking his scar. All in all, he looked stunning, and Draco felt a very real surge of admiration tinged with desire. Oh, yes; Potter looked just fine, indeed.  
  
“She said it would be about five minutes,” he murmured when he was close enough. “If you’d like, I’d be happy to check your coat.” He gestured to the coat over Draco’s arm, and Draco smiled.  
  
“Such a gentleman,” he teased, handing over the coat and removing the scarf from around his throat to hand it over, too. “Are you going to hold my chair?”  
  
Potter grinned even as his cheeks turned pink. “Will I get points if I do?”  
  
“Oh, definitely,” Draco replied. “I’m a sucker for the niceties.”  
  
“Then, yes.” Potter sent him another of those almost shy, bone-melting smiles, and turned to walk back to the desk. Draco watched him go, appreciating the movement of the expensive wool over his broad back and legs, and the way the colored lights seemed to catch in the waves of his blue-black hair. Gods, if he didn’t get a hold of himself, he was going to be fawning over the man like a love-struck school girl, and that simply wouldn’t do. Malfoy’s did not fawn.  
  
But as Potter returned to him once again, Draco noticed that two young women sitting about halfway along the banquette were apparently not above fawning over his date. One of them, a passably pretty blonde, had leaned into her dark-haired friend and was speaking quietly, clearly discussing Potter. They both looked him up and down as he passed as if he was a side of beef and they were hungry carnivores, and the sight of it made Draco’s mouth tighten. The brazen hussies, he thought in irritation. Couldn’t they see that the man was already  _with_  someone?  
  
When he turned his eyes back to Potter, there was a slight frown between his black brows as he approached.  
  
“What’s the matter?” Potter asked, studying his face.  
  
Quickly, Draco smoothed his features. “Nothing,” he answered, but he could tell that Potter didn’t believe him, and turned in time to see the two young women still watching him avidly. When they saw him looking, they giggled and looked away. He turned back, his face stony.  
  
“I’m sorry about that,” he murmured. “I’d hoped that by coming to a Muggle place, we could avoid anyone recognizing me. I really wanted to get a chance to be with you without the entire place staring.”  
  
Draco studied his face, noticing the deepening blush and the uncomfortable twist of his mouth. “You think they’re witches, and that’s why they’re staring?”  
  
Potter frowned slightly. “Why else?”  
  
Draco stared at him for a long moment, assessing his sincerity. The green eyes were utterly without guile, and Draco shook his head slowly. “You really don’t know, do you?”  
  
“I…” Potter started, then stopped, shrugging slightly. “No, I guess not.”  
  
“Potter,” Draco said almost gently, “those women are not witches, at least not in the sense that we’re used to. They’re staring because you’re really very nice to look at.” Potter shifted uncomfortably, as if he didn’t believe him.  
  
“If that’s what they’re doing, they’d be staring at you, not me,” he said self-effacingly, and Draco felt something swell in the center of his chest. He wanted to both reassure Potter that there was absolutely nothing wrong with the way he looked, and find Scott Richards and hex his balls into little tiny raisins for leaving this handsome man questioning his own appeal. Settling on the first option, he reached out and let his hand drift up to touch Potter’s arm.  
  
“I think they prefer someone with dark hair,” he said, smiling slowly, putting as much warmth as he could into his eyes. “And I think I prefer that they know that you’re already with someone else.” He looked over Potter’s shoulder to the two young women and found that they were watching them rather avidly. Catching the blonde’s eyes, he let his smile ripen as he stroked down Potters arm, then took his hand and linked their fingers. He lifted his brow meaningfully, and her pretty little bow mouth formed a perfect ‘o’ before she blushed and looked away.  
  
For his part, Potter looked both startled… and faintly pleased. Just then one of the Hostess’s stepped into the center of the foyer, her eyes scanning the crowd.  
  
“Potter?” She announced, her voice carrying. Potter caught his breath softly.  
  
“Our table’s ready.”  
  
“So it is,” Draco replied.  
  
“Shall we?” Potter asked, angling his head.  
  
“After you.”  
  
Draco expected Potter to drop his hand and gesture him ahead.  
  
He was gratified when, instead, he turned and pulled Draco with him, their fingers still linked.


	13. Cognac, Chocolate Souffle' and Peppermint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part:

They walked along the snowy street towards the Apparition point, footsteps muffled in newly fallen snow. It had come down steadily throughout their dinner, and they’d watched it accumulate through the windows near their table. Now the drift of flakes had nearly stopped, and the world was silent, perfect, and white.  
  
It had been a lovely meal, and Harry was now debating how best to end their evening.  
  
The room that they’d been escorted to had once been a formal parlour on the second floor, located in a rounded turret. The hard wood floors gleamed, reflecting the firelight from a blaze that burned merrily on the hearth and the white lights that lit the lavishly decorated Christmas tree in the corner were splashes of white on the dark grain. Thick garland draped the mantle, and a large wreath hung above, accented with red and gold bows and gleaming ornaments that sparkled in the soft light. It was a wonderful, warm room, the walls covered with elegant woodwork in deepest cherry. The windows located in the rounded walls, bracketed by dark red velvet draperies, showed the snowy street outside. There were heavy gold linens on the three small tables that occupied the space and red glass hurricane lamps with their wicks ablaze, surrounded by small wreaths of waxy holy leaves and bright red berries, sat in the center of each.  
  
Only one of the three tables was occupied, by an older couple who glanced up briefly before they returned to their meal. The hostess indicated a table just to the left of the fireplace, and she smiled faintly as Harry pulled back Draco’s chair and waited. Shooting him a raised eyebrow, Draco had allowed himself to be seated.  
  
“Why, how lovely of you to take me out to dinner in a restaurant that’s a tribute to all things Gryffindor,” Draco murmured as Harry pushed in his chair.  
  
“Want me to ask if they have a green and silver room?” Harry whispered back wryly, and was relieved when Draco laughed.  
  
The hostess handed each of them a menu before leaving, and when Harry opened it, his heart sank. It was completely in French. He closed it again instantly.  
  
“I could sit here and pretend to understand this,” he said, laying it aside. “Or I could do the more intelligent thing, and just let you order.”  
  
Draco shot him a wry grin across the table. “So sure I can speak French, are you?”  
  
Harry linked his fingers on the thick menu and returned his look. “I’m willing to bet my stomach on it.” Draco had chuckled, and when the waiter arrived at their table, ordered in flawless French. Harry found listening to him extremely sexy. When their meals were delivered, and Harry saw the two plates loaded with rib steaks and potatoes, he grinned.  
  
“So, that’s what meat and potatoes sound like in French,” he quipped. “Much sexier than English, I must say.”  
  
Draco’s brows had arched over grey eyes that shone. “Language kink, Potter?” he asked as he cut into the perfectly cooked steak. Harry knew he was blushing. “Good to know.”  
  
Dinner had been pleasant, conversation witty and easy. They hadn’t delved deeply into much that was personal, for which Harry was grateful. He liked Draco; quite a lot, actually. He wasn’t anything like the boy he remembered from school. He was funny and urbane, but the biting edge he’d once had was almost completely gone. Harry relaxed in his company, and even found himself really enjoying himself, but he couldn’t help hearing Hermione’s voice in the back of his mind.  _”Please, just be careful,”_  she’d cautioned, _“you don’t really know him. You’re still so vulnerable...”_.  
  
“Galleon for your thoughts, Potter.”  
  
Harry started and looked over at him, only to find Draco studying his face, his eyes inquisitive.  
  
“I…” Harry paused to swallow. “I just…”  
  
Draco put out his hand, catching his elbow and pulling him to a stop, his eyes narrowing as he studied Harry’s face. “Potter,” he murmured. “Are you nervous,  _now_? The hard part is behind us, you know. We managed to get through dinner without hexing one another or destroying any furniture. Well done us, I must say.”  
  
The light banter helped, and Harry took and released a deep breath. “I’m just not sure what happens now,” he admitted. “I don’t have a lot of experience with the whole… dating thing. I don’t know what you expect.”  
  
Draco angled his head to one side. “What I expect?” he asked lightly. “Why, I expect you to take me back to your place and ravish me, of course.” Harry knew his eyes had widened almost impossibly and his heart leapt into his throat. Not that he found the idea objectionable, mind you; he found Draco completely desirable. But he had such a horrible track record…  
  
And then Draco smiled, his eyes softening. “Potter, I’m teasing,” he said. “I’m not  _that_  easy. It’ll take more than one dinner, even if you did insist on paying. It was my turn.”  
  
Harry felt his lungs expand as if a vise around his chest had been loosened. “I invited you,” he said. Draco studied him for a long moment.  
  
“Fine, then,” he said briskly. “Consider this conversation  _me_  asking  _you_  out next time.”  
  
“So, there’ll be a next time, then?” Harry asked, afraid he might sound needy, but relieved that he hadn’t bollixed it up completely. Draco’s lips curled up in a slow smile.  
  
“Yes, Potter,” he said warmly. “There will definitely be a next time. Any particular evening bad for you?”  
  
Harry shrugged, his heart lifting with each word Draco spoke. “My schedule is pretty clear at the moment.”  
  
Draco’s eyes began to shine softly. “Good. I’ll be in touch.” He took a step back. “And Potter? You clean up very nicely, indeed.”  
  
Harry grinned shyly, biting his lower lip. “I’d say the same, but I’ve yet to see you when you didn’t look wonderful.”  
  
Draco stopped in his retreat, shook his head, then came back to Harry in three quick strides and before Harry could think to pull away, encircled his nape with his gloved hand and kissed him.  
  
It wasn’t a long kiss. Just a quick brush of lips and a mingling of breath, long enough that Harry’s heart slammed into his ribs and heat spread through his body. Draco tasted of the cognac he’d had after dinner, and chocolate soufflé, and peppermint, and the flavor swirled in Harry’s mouth with the soft brush of Draco’s tongue against his own. Draco finally pulled back just an inch, his breath a soft mist against Harry’s face. “Look for my owl,” he whispered against Harry’s lips, then turned and with a soft ‘crack’, disappeared.  
  
Harry stared at the spot he’d been for a long time before his mouth began to curl up in a startled smile.


	14. God Bless Us, Every One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part:
> 
>  

Draco’s owl arrived at the kitchen window the next morning, and Harry’s hands trembled in anticipation as he removed the neat scroll, once again tied to the owl’s scaly leg with a green velvet ribbon. He paused long enough to offer the finicky bird a treat, chicken flavored this time, then closed the window on its retreating form and opened the scroll.  
  
_Potter_ , it read.  
  
_The Christmas season isn’t complete without one observing certain traditions. Meet me at the address below at seven p.m., sharp._  
  
D. Malfoy  
  
Harry grinned and went to Floo Hermione. She might not approve of his escort, but she wouldn’t let him leave the house incorrectly dressed.  
  
~~~***~~~  
  
Draco stood on the corner in front of the Avery Theatre, scanning the crowds that passed. Heavily lit Christmas decorations spanned the narrow street and carolers on the corner across from him were doing a fair rendition of Carol of the Bells. Automobiles splashed through puddles left after the temperature had warmed a bit and turned the snow to slush in the streets, and shoppers with gaily wrapped packages in shopping bags rushed past.  
  
He loved Christmas; he always had. He loved the decorations and the music and sights and the smells. Most of his childhood had been spent on Diagon Alley, where Christmas was truly a magical time, but in deference to Potter this outing was once again taking place in Muggle London. That was all right, he thought with a faint smile. It was actually rather nice to be gawked at because his date was handsome rather than because his father had once trailed along after a mad man.  
  
He glanced at his watch, and saw that it was 6:59. “All right, Potter,” he muttered. “One minute more and you’re late.”  
  
“Then, my being here now means I’m early?”  
  
Draco whirled and found Potter standing behind him on the sidewalk, his hands in the pockets of a short black leather jacket and his smile tentative, but engaging.  
  
“I’m not sure I would go that far,” Draco said with a slight smirk. “But promptness is a virtue.”  
  
“I’ll strive to remember that.” His green eyes were shining and his teeth flashed white in the holiday lights. “Am I dressed okay? Hermione said this is the Theatre district, but I didn’t need to do the whole suit thing…”  
  
Draco allowed his eyes to drift over Potter from his head to his feet. He was wearing black denims and a black ribbed turtle neck under the black jacket, and the dark color accented his faintly tousled hair and flattered his tawny skin.  
  
“It’s fine,” Draco said with a slight smile. “You look very nice. So, are you ready?”  
  
Harry shrugged, glancing around. “I’ve no idea what we’re doing.”  
  
Draco grinned and slipped his arm through Harry’s, pulling him along. “You’ll find out. Let’s go.”  
  
They walked to the ticket booth, and Draco retrieved their tickets as Harry scanned the marquee.  
  
“A Christmas Carol?” he asked when Draco turned, tickets in hand.  
  
“Have you ever seen it?” he asked, pulling Harry into the queue that had begun to move towards the doors.  
  
“I think I may have seen it on the Muggle telly when I was a kid,” he answered. “Ghosts and such?”  
  
“Ah, but seeing it on the telly, and seeing it live, are two very different things. Trust me.”  
  
The Malfoy’s had long had a private box at the Avery. Every year when Draco was a child his mother and father had brought him to see “A Christmas Carol”, and he’d looked forward to the outings almost as much as he’d looked forward to the presents.  
  
“Charles Dickens was a wizard,” he could remember his father saying, and he repeated it now for Harry. “Muggles thought that the inclusion of ghosts was fanciful, but we knew that it was quite literal. Here, these are our seats…”  
  
He opened the door to the private box and led Potter to two padded chairs near the railing facing the stage, and he looked around, wide-eyed.  
  
“Wow,” he murmured. “These are really good.” He glanced down at the crowd, then across at the booth directly opposite where they were standing. It was heavily draped with red velvet curtains, and there was a stylized monogram in gold embroidered into the scarlet fabric.  
  
“That’s were the royal family sit when they’re in attendance,” Draco explained softly, leaning towards Harry’s shoulder. “But I believe they’ve already left town for Scotland for the holidays.”  
  
“You have seats across from the Queen,” Harry murmured, shaking his head. “My Aunt Petunia would piss herself.”  
  
Draco smirked. “Well, then she’s never invited to attend. That would be gauche.”  
  
Harry was still chuckling when the lights dimmed and the massive red curtains shielding the stage parted.  
  
Draco had seen the play dozens of times, but the cast this year was quite good, and the ‘special effects’ for the ghosts better than they’d been in years past. But his attention was more and more often engaged by Potter’s face. He leaned forward in his chair, his eyes on the stage, his face rapt as he watched, and Draco began to wonder if Potter had ever been to the theatre before. When the lights came up at the end of Act One and the applause faded, he asked him.  
  
He was surprised when Potter’s eyes dropped and his face filled with color. “No, I…” He shrugged awkwardly. “My relatives, the ones who raised me… they didn’t think it was necessary.”  
  
“They didn’t think going to the theatre was necessary?” Draco asked, aghast. He couldn’t imagine people who didn’t think Shakespeare, or Chekov, or even Andrew Lloyd Webber was necessary.  
  
“Oh, they went,” Potter said quickly. “They took my cousin Dudley. They just didn’t see the point in buying a ticket for me. I think they thought it would be a waste of money. They didn’t actually like me very much.”  
  
Draco stared at him. Potter had said it so matter-of-factly, and he was thrown back to the conversation he’d had with Andromeda.  
  
_I don’t know how much of it you’re aware of,_  she’d said.  _”But when his parents were killed, he was left in the care of some Muggle relatives who never wanted him, and weren’t reserved about telling him that…_  
  
“Potter,” Draco said, reaching out to put his hand on the sturdy arm nearest him, but the lights began to dim for the second act, and Potter faced the stage, his face avid.  
  
After that, Draco didn’t even pretend to watch the show; he watched Potter. He watched his eyes widen when the ghost of Christmas Present appeared in all of his grandeur, saw his brow furrow over the fate that the ghost of Christmas Future warned of for Tiny Tim. He even saw his eyes tear slightly when Scrooge promised Tim that they’d find a way to make him better, and Draco felt a lump fill his own throat at the sight. Who  _was_  this man, he found himself wondering. And how in the world had anyone ever had the heart to hurt him?  
  
When the final bows had been taken and the house lights came up, Potter turned to him with a bright smile.  
  
“That was  _brilliant!_ ” he enthused.  
  
Draco smiled at him. “I’m glad that you liked it. We could go to the Old Globe, maybe see Shakespeare sometime?”  
  
Potter’s grin widened. “I think I’d like that a lot.”  
  
“Excellent.” He stood, vowing to see about tickets at his earliest convenience.  
  
They began to leave the box, but Potter put his hand on his arm, stopping him, and Draco turned back. He was glancing around to see that they weren’t being observed, then he turned back and leaned in, kissing Draco lightly on the lips. “Thank you, Draco,” he murmured, his eyes near. “This was really special.”  
  
“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Draco replied, his voice equally soft. “It was special for me, too.”  
  
He was faintly surprised to realize that he was telling the absolute truth.


	15. Visions of Sugar Plums

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part:

Draco had rather hoped that Potter would take the initiative and send an owl the morning after they saw “A Christmas Carol”; after all, he’d instigated that almost chaste kiss in the box before they’d left the theatre, and another, slightly less chaste, at the Apparition point before they’d separated for the night. But when ten, then eleven a.m. came and went, he’d about resigned himself to the fact that there wasn’t going to be a note. He’d entered into a good sulk in his wide bed when he heard sharp rapping coming from his bedroom window. He sat up abruptly, his head jerking toward the sound, but instead of the soft grey owl that Potter had been using, he saw his Aunt’s large snowy, Caliope, staring at him balefully with her huge yellow eyes. Sighing, he threw back the covers and crossed to the window, letting the bird in and taking the note that was affixed to her foot.  
  
 _Draco,_  Andromeda’s elegant script read,  _If you aren’t otherwise occupied, I could use your help this morning for an hour or two. Teddy comes home on Friday, and I’d like to have the house decorated by then, but I’m feeling a wee bit under the weather. Your mother told me that you are quite gifted with decoration spells, and I’m quite certain you could have the whole thing done while I was still thinking about it. I’d be ever so grateful, dear nephew, if you could help me out._  
  
Aunt Andromeda.   
  
Draco sighed again and rolled his eyes. Of course, he could point his wand at a fir tree and utter the spells that had the bloody thing decorating itself; any third year could do it. But if she wasn’t feeling well…. He took one more lingering look out the window, and seeing nothing but an expanse of light grey sky, he walked into his huge closet to get dressed.  
  


~~~***~~~

  
  
He stepped out of the Floo in Andromeda’s living room, brushing soot from the outer robes he used for that form of travel, removing them and hanging them on a coat rack nearby.  
  
“Aunt?” he called, making certain that his hands were clean before straightening the collar of the sky blue button down he had on under a grey cashmere sweater, and making sure his slender belt was centered at the waist of his black wool trousers. He might be going to play house-elf for an hour or two, but he didn’t have to look like one. He glanced in the mirror above the fireplace to make certain his hair wasn’t darkened with ash, then turned.  
  
“Aunt?” he ventured again, looking into the entryway before heading through Andromeda’s sitting room toward the library. When he heard voices coming from the kitchen, he detoured in that direction through the dining room, pushing the butler door open and stopping abruptly in the doorway when he saw the scene before him.  
  
Andromeda was sitting at her small breakfast table with a cup of tea in her hand and a smile on her care worn face. Her still dark hair was twisted in a low chignon at the nape of her neck, and she was wearing dark blue robes that were very flattering. But Draco scarcely spared her a glance before his eyes were drawn across the room to the black-haired man who stood next to the counter, a pastry bag in one hand, wearing a bright red apron over denims and a tight long sleeved t-shirt in faded green. Lined up on trays on the kitchen counter were dozens of cupcakes, frosted in white, with tiny green Christmas trees decorated with red dots centered on the top of each. Draco could see that the pastry bag in his hand held red frosting, and that Potter held one half-decorated cake in his hand.  
  
“Well, hello,” Draco said, his eyes on Potter’s. He was gratified by the flash of pleasure he’d seen in them when he appeared, and encouraged by the warm smile.  
  
“Hi,” Potter answered. “I didn’t know you were going to be here.”  
  
“I asked Draco to come and help me with the tree,” Andromeda said, and both men looked at her. “This silly cold is making me so tired, and I want everything to be perfect when Teddy gets home.”  
  
Draco let the door swing closed behind him, and crossed to where Potter stood, studying the cupcake in his hand. The small Christmas tree was perfectly formed, the cake itself frosted in white with tiny stars piped around the edge.  
  
“You really are just full of surprises, aren’t you?” he said with a slight smile, lifting his eyes to Potter’s. He was charmed by the blush he saw climbing the man’s neck.  
  
“I’ve been making them every year since Ted was tiny,” he said softly. “He’d be disappointed if they weren’t here when he got home.”  
  
“They’re very cute.” He took a half step closer to Potter, his smile teasing. “Do they taste as good as they look?”  
  
That blush made it from Potter’s neck to his cheeks. “Teddy likes them.”  
  
“They’re delicious,” Andromeda offered, and Draco glanced over at her. She was watching him with a smile that was entirely too sly, and he arched an eyebrow at her sardonically.  
  
“I believe I’ll go and levitate those decorations down from the attic,” she said smoothly, standing and taking her tea to the sink. She patted Potter’s arm as she passed him, headed for the door. “They’re lovely, Harry, dear. Maybe you’d like to stay and help us with the other things when you’re done?”  
  
“Sure, Andie,” he said pleasantly, and she shot Draco another telling look before she left the room.  
  
They stood in silence for a long moment, then Potter lifted the bag and began to place dots on the piped frosting branches. “I was going to owl you this morning,” he said, his voice lowered. “But I overslept, and when I woke up, I knew that Andie would be waiting…”  
  
“It’s all right,” Draco replied, his own voice soft.  
  
“I was trying to decide what we should do next,” Potter went on, teasing his lower lip with his teeth as he set the cake aside and reached for another. “It’s going to be hard to top ‘A Christmas Carol’.”  
  
With an effort, Draco managed not to make an off color joke about Potter topping  _him_. He didn’t think they’d quite arrived at that point, yet.  
  
“How about we decorate Aunt Andromeda’s tree,” he said instead, “and then get a bite to eat.” Potter’s eyes lifted to his again, his full lips curling in a smile.  
  
“Sounds good to me.”  
  
“Excellent.” Draco was about to turn to go when he noticed that there was what appeared to be a smudge of green frosting on the side of Potter’s jaw. He angled his head, studying it, and Potter frowned slightly.  
  
“What?”  
  
“You’ve frosting,” Draco answered, lifting his hand. “Just… there.” He rubbed the bright green mark from Potter’s slightly rough skin, then without thinking, popped the finger into his mouth and sucked the frosting off. He saw Potter’s eyes follow the motion, and then darken when Draco’s cheeks hollowed. He knew that his eyes had begun to twinkle wickedly as he held his finger in his mouth just slightly longer than necessary, then removed it with a soft ‘pop’. “Delicious,” he murmured, his lips curling in a teasing smile. “See you in the sitting room, yes?”  
  
Potter inhaled and exhaled softly, then nodded quickly, his concentration going back to the sweet in his hand, his cheeks once again bright red.  
  
Draco was whistling “Deck the Halls” as he left the kitchen.


	16. Ho Ho Ho

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part:

Harry wasn’t quite sure how it happened, but once the cupcakes and two different kinds of biscuits were done and cooling on racks on the kitchen counter, and Andromeda’s halls were decked within an inch of their lives, she’d thrust a list into Harry’s hands and shooed both Draco and him into the floo with instructions to finish her shopping for Teddy. It had been done with much charm and a sad little pitiful cough that Harry was beginning to be very suspicious of, but neither of them had argued with her.  
  
Harry had stiffened uncomfortably when he recognized the sitting room at Malfoy Manor as their first stop, but Draco had promised he’d be very quick fetching a coat, and he’d been as good as his word. Still, Harry had spent the five minutes standing before the floo ready to bolt at a moment’s notice and convinced that Draco’s mother would appear to demand just what in hell he was doing in her parlor. It had been with enormous relief, when Draco had reappeared, that they’d floo’d one after the other into the main dining room at the Leaky Cauldron.  
  
Harry wasn’t ready to brave wizarding London, and once Draco had arrived next to him on the hearth, they exited quickly out of the front of the tavern rather than the back, headed towards the busy downtown shopping district of Metropolitan London.  
  
“Some of this is going to have to be purchased in Diagon Alley, Potter,” Draco said, studying the list in his hand. He looked up at Harry, one brow raised. “Unless you’re willing to risk Aunt’s disappointment.”  
  
Harry shook his head. “No, I’ll do it,” he said, falling into step beside Draco as they made their way down the damp, crowded sidewalk. “Just… maybe early tomorrow morning, before there are too many people about.” He paused. “And did you get the feeling that we were being managed just a bit there?”  
  
Draco laughed. “A bit? That, my good man, was one of the Black sisters doing what they do best; manipulating the men in their lives. Her being a widow hasn’t diminished her skill a bit.”  
  
Harry glanced at him again, frowning slightly. “But it was almost as if…” he let his voice trail off, and Draco looked at him inquisitively. “Well, it was almost as if she  _wanted_  us to… I don’t know…”  
  
“Run into each other in her kitchen?” Draco offered wryly.  
  
Harry shrugged. “Well, yeah. And then with the list. It was like she was…” He huffed and shook his head.  
  
“The word you’re searching for is ‘matchmaking’,” Draco said with a slight smirk. Harry’s eyes widened when he looked at him again.  
  
“You think Andie is trying to set us up, like, on a date?”  
  
“Eloquent as ever Potter. And yes, I do believe that Aunt Andromeda has decided that I would be good for what ails you. And vice-versa.”  
  
Potter shot him a look from beneath his lashes. “Well, what do you think about that?” he asked, feeling slightly breathless.  
  
“I think I never question the wisdom of my aunt, or my mother. To do otherwise would be hazardous to my health.”  
  
It hadn’t been quite the answer he’d been searching for, but his heart still felt light as they walked companionably side by side past shops teeming with holiday shoppers.  
  
Draco pointed out a few things and consulted the list frequently, and they managed to find three of the items that Andromeda wanted, purchased them and had them wrapped. They were passing a men’s clothing store, Harry’s arms laden with the shopping bags, when Draco stopped short, his eyes going wide.  
  
“Well,” he said, frowning slightly. “That’s obvious.”  
  
Harry studied his face, then searched for what he was looking at, and immediately felt his face begin to fill with heat.  
  
There was an advertisement in the window, a rather large one, showing a very fit young man in what appeared to be a Father Christmas costume. Except it was hanging from his shoulders, open over an impressive, tattooed chest, the trousers hanging low on strong hipbones. He was very tan, staring straight at the camera, and he was holding a pair of sunglasses in one hand, the frame of one side between his teeth. But it was what he was doing with his other hand that caught and held Harry’s attention. He was clearly cupping his… er, assets in a very inviting manner, and the expression on his face made it very clear what he was offering.  
  
“That’s certainly brazen,” Draco said dryly. “I didn’t realize Muggle’s were quite this forward thinking.”  
  
Harry swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “I think it depends on the Muggle,” he answered. “My Uncle Vernon would blow an aneurism.”  
  
Draco angled his head, contemplating the photo. “That might be justification enough to have that image placed on a Christmas card to send round. You do still have his address, I take it? I could always have it delivered by owl post, I suppose. I can see the inscription now; Merry Christmas, from a rampantly homosexual friend of your nephew’s. Watch out for us; it is our intent to take over the planet…”  
  
Harry’s mouth had dropped open, and he was staring at Draco in a combination of astonished horror and startled amusement. But when Draco’s eyes turned back to him, they were sparkling wickedly, and amusement won. Harry began to laugh, reaching out and catching Draco’s arm.  
  
“I’ll pay you, I swear, if you do that. Whatever you want; it’s yours.”  
  
Draco stepped into his side, his smile curling his full lips, and Harry could feel his lithe warmth through his jacket. “That’s a very tempting offer, Potter. Sure you mean that?”  
  
“Absolutely. You send that card to my uncle, and anything you want.” He leaned into Draco’s side, still smiling, his heart lighter than it had been in months. “What’s your pleasure?”  
  
“Oh, that  _is_  a leading question,” Draco said, his voice dropping, his eyes going to Harry’s mouth. Harry could feel the touch of that look as if Draco had run the pad of his thumb over Harry’s bottom lip, and he took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of Draco’s cologne. It made his head spin. “Let me think on it, yes?” His eyes lifted back to Harry’s, light and teasing, and Harry smiled.  
  
“Take your time.”  
  
Draco smirked, then looked back at the advertisement. “So, tell me Potter,” he said, sounding conversational once again. “What do you think of this specimen? Does he do it for you?”  
  
Harry pretended to study the image, still pressed against Draco’s side, his brow furrowed. “Well,” he said slowly. “He certainly does have some things to recommend him, but on the whole? I’d say he’s not really my type.”  
  
“And what would your type be, exactly?” Draco had turned his head and spoken, his lips moving against Harry’s ear, and he felt a pleasant thrill run the length of his spine.  
  
“Uhm,” Harry said, grateful he didn’t sound as breathless as he felt, “he’s a bit on the… bulky side. And frankly—“ he turned his head, and their eyes were just inches a part, “—he’s not nearly blond enough.”  
  
Draco’s lips began to curl slowly upwards. “Good answer, Potter,” he murmured, rubbing his nose along Harry’s jaw. “Very good answer, indeed.”


	17. Enjoying the View

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part:

Draco felt a chill run the length of his spine as his nose glided along Potter’s stubble, and he inhaled the scents of cupcakes and allspice and  _man_. He felt Potter’s hand slip around his waist, settling against the small of his back, warm through his layer’s of clothing, and suddenly more than anything in the world, he wanted to taste Potter again. His skin, his lips, his tongue; he was almost salivating at the thought. Potter turned his head slightly, and their lips were just centimeters apart. So close that their combined breath made a soft cloud of condensation around their faces, so close that if Draco leaned forward just a bit…  
  
The sound of a throat being cleared loudly had them both jerking slightly and pulling back, and Draco swallowed, completely taken off guard by the fact that he’d so completely forgotten where they were. He looked around, and saw a frumpy middle-aged woman shooting daggers at him from nearby, her mittened hand curled around that of a small girl, no more than eight or nine, whose eyes were as round as saucers.  
  
The woman had a face reminiscent of a bull elephant, and as she glowered at them and yanked on the child’s hand, Draco felt Potter stiffen slightly and withdraw. Aggravated that the unpleasant creature had interrupted such a promising moment, he abandoned all maturity and stuck his tongue out at her. Her mouth dropped open in startled outrage.  
  
“Well, I never!” she huffed, her eyes widening unpleasantly.  
  
“Well, at least once,” Draco retorted smoothly. “Unless you’re the nanny?”  
  
The woman looked confused, but Potter had understood him, and gripped the back of Draco’s jacket in gentle warning. “Draco, don’t,” he murmured. Draco looked over at him, prepared to mollify him if necessary, but Potter wasn’t embarrassed; Draco could see that his eyes were shining with constrained laughter.  
  
“Explain yourself, young man!”  
  
Potter shook his head slightly, his eyes very wide, but his lips were trembling with the effort not to smile. Emboldened, Draco turned back to find the woman glaring at him, her cheeks puffed out like a toad’s.  
  
“You said you’d never,” Draco said, his voice patient. “And I said that you must have, at least once,” he slowed his speech then, as if he were speaking to someone slow witted, “unless you were the child’s  _nanny_  and not her  _mother_.”  
  
He watched as she worked it out, saw the moment that realization dawned, and was surprised that there wasn’t steam coming out of her ears. She seemed to fight for a clever retort, and finding she didn’t have one, she pulled on the child’s arm and stormed away.  
  
“What did the pretty man mean, Mum?” They heard the child’s voice drift back. “I’ve never had a nanny, have I?”  
  
“What an unpleasant creature,” Draco said mildly.  
  
“She looked like my Aunt Marge,” Potter said, finally giving in to a wholly unexpected fit of the giggles. Draco angled his head and looked at him in surprise, his own lips curling, watching as Potter tried, unsuccessfully, to get himself under control.  
  
“I don’t think it was that funny,” Draco said finally.  
  
“Oh, but it was,” Potter managed. “I guess you never heard about my uncontrolled under-aged magic, did you?”  
  
Draco’s eyes widened. “No, but I want to now!”  
  
“My Aunt Marge,” Potter said, his laughter finally subsiding, “is a truly horrid woman. When I was thirteen…” He began to laugh again, putting his hand out to steady himself on the nearby brick wall. Draco shifted slightly so that he was under his arm, watching his handsome face in amusement. Potter shook his head, his laughter subsiding to chuckles. “When I was thirteen, I accidentally blew her up like a hot air balloon, and she floated out of my Uncle’s terrace doors.”  
  
It was Draco’s turn to give a shout of startled laughter, which he immediately muffled behind his hand. “You didn’t,” he said, delighted.  
  
“Oh, I did. And that woman’s face.” Potter began to laugh again. “She looked… just like Marge did… before she floated off down Privet Drive!”  
  
He began to laugh again, leaning back into the wall, and Draco leaned against his side, laughing right along with him. People gave them startled looks as they passed, which only made them laugh all the harder. It was several minutes before they had control of themselves once again. Potter turned his head and studied Draco’s face, his eyes bright.  
  
“Gods, you make me laugh,” he said breathlessly. “I haven’t laughed like this… since your snow sculpture pyrotechnics!”  
  
Draco grinned. “And I’m astounded that Saint Potter blew up his aunt and sent her floating around London, and I’m only hearing about this  _now_. Merlin, Potter, that’s bloody brilliant. You’re sure you were sorted into the right house? That sounds suspiciously Slytherin, to me.”  
  
Potter’s smile curled up one side of his mouth. “The hat actually considered sorting me into Slytherin,” he said softly. “I asked it not to.”  
  
“Why?” Draco asked, clearly mystified. Potter shrugged and glanced away. “Ah, Weasley,” Draco said without heat. Potter looked back.  
  
“He was my first friend,” he said in explanation. Draco nodded.  
  
“And I was an obnoxious little shit.” Potter opened his mouth as if he might protest, and Draco held up his hand. “It’s all right, Potter. In those days I still thought my father was just this side of Merlin, and he’d instilled in me an interesting set of values. Let’s just say that age offers perspective.”  
  
Potter studied his face for a long moment. “Yes, I think it does,” he said fondly, catching Draco’s hand and linking their fingers. They smiled at one another.  
  
“Careful,” Draco teased. “We might outrage another innocent bystander.”  
  
“Fuck em,” Potter shot back, and now Draco laughed.  
  
They moved off down the sidewalk, Draco more than aware of Potter’s fingers curled between his, of the heat and strength of his body beside him as they walked. They passed a candy store, and a coffee shop, and a small bistro.  
  
Just beyond the Bistro, there was a Travel Agency, and Draco looked up at as they walked by. Hanging in the window was a stunning photograph of snow capped mountains and trees frosted white, branches heavy with snow so vivid it actually looked cold. In the foreground was a handsome chalet, its roof under at least a foot of snow. It was beautiful, and he paused.  
  
“What a glorious view,” he murmured.  
  
“Yes, it is.”  
  
He glanced over at Potter, and saw that instead of looking at the picture, he was staring at  _him_  with warm intensity, and Draco blinked.  
  
As he stared into those heated eyes, he thought that it might have been the first time in his adult life that he  _knew_  he was blushing.


	18. Red and Green

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part:

Draco had stopped to covertly examine a display of pyjama’s in the middle of Harrod’s while Potter went to the register to pay for the last of the Muggle items on Andie’s list. As he studied two pair of men’s bottoms, one red plaid and the other green, he smiled faintly. How emblematic, he thought. Red for Potter’s Gryffindor lion, green for the Slytherin crest that would in many ways always define him, and of which he was still proud. The colors should clash, he mused. But they didn’t. They looked quite fetching, folded up together, and he was wondering if there was a way for him to pay for them without Potter seeing when he felt a light touch on his elbow. He turned and found the man in question standing behind him, several shopping bags in his hands.  
  
“All done then?” Draco asked brightly, turning and hoping his back shielded what he’d been studying.  
  
“Well, for what we can do out here, yes,” Potter answered. “And frankly, I’m about all shopped out.”  
  
“Honestly, Potter,” Draco teased, reaching out to relieve the other man of one of the bags. “This is nothing. You should see Mother during one of her spring shopping marathons in Paris. She can go days on end with nothing but adrenalin and wine.”  
  
Potter shuddered slightly. “I must admit; that is not my idea of a good time.”  
  
“Pity,” Draco said lightly. “Watching her bully a couturier is one of life’s real joys.”  
  
Potter’s lips quirked up slightly. “I’ll take your word for it.”  
  
They began to move toward the exit, Draco glancing over his shoulder in an effort to remind himself to return for those pyjamas. It might be ambitious at this point, but he rather thought he’d have use for those green ones. And if he had his way, Potter would be wearing the red ones as well. However briefly.  
  
“Are you tired?” Potter suddenly asked him as they stepped out into the cold, misty night air. The street was nearly deserted, and fog had begun to roll through the streets, shrouding the shops in white mist, making the Christmas lights look like sparkling gems through the condensation.  
  
“Not particularly,” Draco answered. “It’s still early for me. You?”  
  
“No, not tired,” Potter answered quickly. Draco glanced over at him and saw him worrying his lower lip with his teeth, something Draco already knew that he did when something was either on his mind, or he was nervous.  
  
“Spit it out, Potter,” he said, and the other man looked over at him, wide-eyed. “You’re chewing your lip,” Draco said gently. “You’d be an absolutely miserable poker player; you’ve far too many ‘tells’.”  
  
Potter rolled his eyes, but a smile pulled at the corner of his lips. “I was just wondering if maybe you’d like to have a drink.”  
  
“That’s sounds pleasant,” Draco replied brightly. “I could do with a night cap. What did you have in mind?”  
  
“Well,” he said hesitantly. “I was wondering… I mean, if you don’t have any other plans I was thinking…” He stopped, sighing in frustrations. “Gods, I’m bollicks at this…”  
  
Draco took pity on him and curled his hand around Potters arm, feeling the tension in the muscles beneath his jacket. He pulled him to a stop and looked into his eyes.  
  
“Just say it,” he murmured gently. “I’m not so very terrifying.”  
  
“You have no idea how terrifying you are,” Potter muttered, but he exhaled, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “I was wondering if, perhaps, you’d like to come back to my place for a glass of wine. Hermione gave me this bottle of Shiraz, and while I don’t know anything about it, she says it’s really good, and…” He paused when Draco’s face slowly lit in a keen smile. “What?”  
  
“Potter, are you inviting me to see your etchings?”  
  
Potter stared at him for a moment, his mouth slight open, then he shook his head. “No,” he retorted. “For your information, I don’t own any etchings. I do, however, have this bottle of pricey wine, but if you don’t want to…”  
  
“Potter,” Draco laughed. “I’m teasing you. I can’t think of anything I’d rather do than come help you drink Granger’s wine.”  _And get you tipsy and then jump you,_  he completed the thought to himself, but wisely refrained from saying that aloud.  
  
“Yeah?” Potter said, as if he couldn’t quite believe that Draco had agreed. His hesitancy softened something that had long been hardened in Draco’s chest.  
  
“Yes,” he said, his hand squeezing Potter’s arm. “Just tell me how to get there.”  
  
Potter stared into his eyes for a long moment, then shook his head, taking a step closer. “It’s… kind of out in the country, and hard to explain. If it’s all right with you, I thought I’d just Apparate us.” He slipped his arm around Draco’s waist, pulling him in, and Draco felt his breath leave him in a rush as he was suddenly pressed against Potter from chest to knees.  
  
“That…would be fine,” he managed, sounding almost as breathless as he felt. Potter’s lips curled in a slow smile.  
  
“Good. Hold on.”  
  
“I can do that,” Draco replied, putting his free hand around Potter’s waist and gripping his coat.  
  
“Brilliant.”  
  
Potter’s smile was the last thing that Draco saw before the misty street whirled away.


	19. Red, Red Wine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part:
> 
>  

When they arrived in Harry’s sitting room, he stumbled slightly. He’d never been much good at Apparating, and unfortunately hadn’t improved with age. It was a bit mortifying when his clumsiness set Draco back a couple of steps, but he couldn’t complain about the fact that it tightened the other man’s hold around his waist. He steadied himself and looked up to find Draco’s eyes on his face, and full of humor.  
  
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I’ve always been pants at that.”  
  
A smile pulled at Draco’s lips. “That has its advantages.” Harry felt the warmth of a hand slide across his back, and a thrill shot down his spine.  
  
“So it does.” His eyes dropped to Draco’s mouth, found the lips moist and slightly parted, and he wanted very much to kiss him. But the little voice of caution in his head, the one that had been advising prudence and which sounded suspiciously like Hermione, chose that moment to reassert itself once again, and Harry took a step back. He thought he saw confusion or perhaps disappointment in the light eyes, but it was gone so quickly he couldn’t be sure. “I’ll… get the wine, then,” he said unnecessarily, backing up another step and turning towards the kitchen.  
  
Suddenly he couldn’t help but wonder what Draco thought of his homey little house. Harry loved it; it had been love at first sight. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he’d wondered if his parents house had been like this one, because he’d felt at home in it from the moment he’d walked through the door. There were five rooms on the main floor; the sitting room, dining room, kitchen and a small office that he’d put a desk and some bookshelves in but rarely used, and a convenience bath off of the kitchen. Upstairs were the three bedrooms, including the master suite with a huge bath complete with claw foot tub. The whole of it was decorated in browns and gold and hunter green, and Harry loved it, but he could recognize that it was rustic. He couldn’t help but wonder, with its hardwood floors and scattered rag rugs, the heavy furniture dotted with throw pillows and small fleece throws over the arms of the chair and sofa that Hermione had provided, if it didn’t look as if someone’s maiden aunt lived there. He shrugged inwardly as he made his way into the kitchen; there wasn’t much he could do about it now.  
  
“This is very nice, Potter.” Harry hadn’t realized that Draco had followed him into the kitchen, and he jumped and turned. Draco was standing framed in the doorway between the kitchen and dining room, his outer coat already removed, looking around appreciatively. Harry had noticed the way he was dressed earlier, but standing there in his kitchen, he couldn't help but admire Draco again. He was wearing dark slacks and a grey cashmere jumper over a pale blue button down, and Harry was forcefully reminded that, in contrast, he was wearing old jeans and a faded t-shirt. “Where are we exactly?”  
  
“Surrey,” Harry answered once he’d drawn his eyes back to Draco’s face. There was a slight smirk around the full mouth, and Harry felt heat spread under his collar. “There’s a small farming village nearby, but this is pretty isolated.”  
  
“I gathered,” Draco said, glancing towards the darkened windows. “I didn’t see any neighboring houses.”  
  
“I think the closest one is about a mile and a half.”  
  
Draco’s brows lifted. “Well, if the desire was privacy, I’d say that you achieved that.”  
  
“It was, and I did,” Harry agreed. He turned, swallowing heavily, and walked to his pantry, removing the bottle of Shiraz that was on a shelf. He wasn’t a fan of red wine, but it was all he had. He paused to catch his breath before returning to the kitchen, where he found Draco leaning against the counter next to the sink.  
  
Harry crossed to him; the corkscrew was in a drawer just next to Draco’s hip, and he opened it, taking it out. When he did, their arms brushed and he felt a soft, slow heat spread down his arm. He didn’t think he’d ever been so hyper aware of anyone in his life.  
  
He looked at the bottle, then the corkscrew, then into Draco’s eyes. “I won’t lie,” he murmured wryly. “I’m pants at getting all of the cork out, but I’d be willing to bet that you aren’t.”  
  
Draco smiled slowly, taking the wine and the opener from Harry’s hands. “I have a bit a practice, yes.” He turned and placed the wine on the counter, turned the sharpened screw into the cork with ease, withdrawing it neatly. Harry had seen sommelier’s in restaurants that weren’t as smooth.  
  
“Where is your stem ware?” Draco asked softly, stirring Harry from his musing.  
  
“Sorry,” he muttered, turning and opening a cupboard, reaching up for the wine glasses that were on the top shelf. The muscle he’d pulled the week before shoveling snow twinged, and he winced before he could help himself.  
  
“What was that?” Draco asked, frowning slightly.  
  
“Nothing,” Harry answered, placing the glasses on the counter.  
  
“It didn’t look like nothing.”  
  
Harry shrugged. “I pulled something in my shoulder last week, shoveling snow. I forget about it until I move the wrong way.” And he’d become a pro at ignoring it. If Hermione got wind of the fact he’d hurt himself shoveling, he’d never hear the end of it. He loved her, but sometimes he felt he was a bit old for a mum.  
  
He looked over to find Draco eyeing him balefully. “Do not tell me that no one has ever taught you the spell for clearing walkways.”  
  
“I…” Harry paused, then shook his head.  
  
“Potter, I think sometimes it escapes your notice that you’re a wizard, and one of the most bloody powerful ones in nearly a century.” He poured the wine into the two glasses, then turned, shooting a look over his shoulder. “Come on; we’re going to get that shoulder sorted out.”  
  
Harry frowned, but followed. “I’m fine,” he said.  
  
“You’re not,” Draco retorted. “And you might have said something before you let me push all of those bags off on you all evening. That’s probably why it’s bothering you now. Honestly!” He paused when Harry just stared after him. “Are you coming?” he asked, one brow arching, and Harry pushed away from the counter to follow him, feeling distinctly bemused.  
  
When they arrived in the sitting room, Draco handed him one of the glasses, then glanced at the fireplace with an assessing look before turning back. “May I?” he asked, indicating the wood already stacked there.  
  
“Sure,” Harry answered, watching as Draco removed his wand from his sleeve and pointed it at the fireplace. Flames shot from the tip, and within moments were licking around the logs with a warm, crackling noise. Draco took a sip of his wine as he turned back, making an appreciative sound.  
  
“Very nice,” he murmured in approval, then set the glass on an end table. “All right,” he said with the air of someone taking charge, “shirt off, it you please.”  
  
Harry’s eyes widened and he blinked, something he knew he’d done rather a lot of since he and Draco had been reacquainted. Draco shot him a look and shook his head with a wry smile.  
  
“I’m very good with healing spells,” he said pointedly. “But I need to assess the injury first, and I can’t do it through cotton.”  
  
Harry cleared his throat, then removed his jacket and then pulled his tee-shirt off over his head, tossing it aside. If he hadn’t been so nervous, the heat the entered Draco’s eyes as he studied his chest would have been extremely gratifying. “Now, lay face down on the sofa, here.” This time Harry narrowed his eyes and sent him a doubtful look, but Draco merely grinned. “So suspicious, Potter.”  
  
Harry shook his head, but did as he was told, stretching out on the comfortable couch, his face on one of the pillows that Hermione he provided. He felt Draco beside him, and glanced over as he knelt next to his side, his wand in his hand.  
  
“Right shoulder, yes?” he asked, his voice soft. Harry nodded. “All right, if you’d stretch your arm up until you feel the muscle in question pull, please?” He did, grimacing when pain shot down his side. He heard Draco muttering softly, and felt a tingling spread over his shoulder. “I see the problem. Here, yes?” he laid his palm on Harry’s back, directly over the pain, and his skin was warm, his touch soothing. Harry nodded again, closing his eyes. He felt Draco knead the spot with surprisingly strong fingers while again muttering under his breath, and Harry felt heat sink into the muscle, felt the irritation and stiffness slowly fade until only the pleasure of Draco’s touch remained. Long after the pain and receded, Draco continued to touch his skin, first just over where the hurt had been, but then along his spine, and up to his nape, his fingers stroking and soothing out kinks and tightness as he went.  
  
“You’re a bundle of knots, Potter,” he said, his mouth close enough to Harry’s ear that he felt his breath on his skin. “What’s got you so tied up?”  
  
“Right at the moment, you do,” Harry replied, surprised at his own honesty. He could only attribute it to the languor that was spreading through his limbs, making him feel soft and pliable everywhere. Well, everywhere but his cock. It was trapped between his leg and the denim covering it, and throbbing in a not entirely unpleasant manner.  
  
“I do?” Draco murmured, and Harry felt his lips brush his ear that time. “Well, then I guess we’re even.”  
  
Feeling warm and replete, Harry opened his eyes to find Draco’s hovering nearby even as his hand stroked down Harry’s spine.  
  
“I’ve got you tied in knots?” Harry murmured, his lips quirking up at the corner.  
  
“Uh-huh,” Draco affirmed. “Have done since we had cocoa after you bailed me out. And every time I see you, they get tighter, and tighter.”  
  
Harry rolled to his side, then his back, appreciating that his shoulder didn’t ache, appreciating more that Draco’s eyes moved over him, taking in the hills and valleys of his sculpted chest and stomach, and watched as they drifted to his groin. There was no way he could miss the bulge that swelled solidly against his thigh, and when he dampened his lower lip with his tongue, Harry felt himself get even harder.  
  
“Right now,” Draco went on, his voice deeper and slightly raspy, “they’re so tight, I can scarcely get a deep breath. My God, Potter. Look at you.” He reached forward, his hand coming to rest on Harry’s striated stomach, drifting up to cup his pectoral. Harry felt goose flesh rise in the wake of his touch, and his nipple tighten against Draco’s palm. “Look at you.”  
  
Harry arched into his hand when Draco moved it and his thumb stroked gently over the sensitive, tightly pebbled peak.  
  
“I think I’d rather look at you,” Harry replied, his own voice darkening nearly an octave. He reached out and curled his hand around Draco’s nape and pulled him in until their eyes were close. “Or, better still…”  
  
Harry pulled Draco to him, opening his mouth, taking the soft pink lips, sending his tongue searching into the waiting heat behind them. He heard Draco moan softly, and felt his hand spread on Harry’s chest as Harry pulled him down to lay across him.  
  
As Draco threw himself into the kiss in response, his hands moving down Harry’s sides and back up again, Harry thought that he might have to re-evaluate his fondness for the taste of red wine. On Draco’s tongue, it was perfect.


	20. When the Past Catches Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part:

Gods, he was brilliant, was all Draco could think. He’d kissed and been kissed by a lot of men in his life. Even a few women, though in truth they were mostly forgettable and really hadn’t done anything for him. But he’d never been kissed quite the way Potter was kissing him now. He’d thought those few kisses had been a sort of prelude, that he’d known what to expect. He could not have been more wrong.  
  
Potter kissed with not just his mouth, but with the whole of himself. The shyness and insecurity he’d seen in him was nowhere in evidence now; he pulled Draco in as if his movements themselves could brook no argument, and quite simply overwhelmed him. Strong arms came around his slender body, pulling him not just in but effortlessly up and over until he was lying atop of him. Strong, square hands mapped his back and his sides, one finally detouring up into his hair as the other slid south along his spine, curving over his arse, following the center seam of his trousers between his legs until Draco had no thought but to spread them until he was straddling Potters hips and allowed that hand to go where it would. And all the while, his lips were moving, caressing his, that sleek tongue sliding along his, entwining with it, leading it on a merry chase until Draco chased it back into Potter’s mouth with his own, only to have his caught against the roof of Potter’s mouth and sucked hard enough that Draco felt it clear to his stiffened cock.  
  
He groaned again, a wanton sound, pressing his hardness into Potter’s groin, rubbing gracelessly against him. The hand caressing between his arse cheeks was a wicked, wicked thing, easily pressing in over where his hidden opening was, teasing the sensitive spot then moving further still, until Potter curled his fingers and pulled up, applying pressure to his swollen perineum and causing him to see stars. He gasped against Potter’s mouth, afraid if he didn’t stop he’d spend himself then and there. Instead he bucked against Potter’s hardness, wrenching a groan from Potter’s lips.  
  
“Wait, wait,” Potter gasped, his hands moving to Draco’s hips, stilling him, lifting him. “I’ve got to… I can’t…” He pushed him up and held him there with one hand, and Draco was mystified until he saw Potter shove the other hand into his own trousers, pulling at his hardened cock until it was no longer trapped against his thigh.  
  
“Let me,” Draco said, his eyes avid and he followed the course of Potter’s hand into the loosened waistband of the ancient denims and encountered the soft cotton of often washed y-fronts. His fingers and Potter’s brushed, and then he had his hand turned and pressed to a substantial bulge. Potter’s hips jerked as he wrapped his fingers around it, and it was thick and hard in his hand.  
  
“Gods, Potter,” he moaned. “How in Merlin’s name have you been hiding  _this_.”  
  
Potter gave a strangled laugh, reaching for the hem of Draco’s jumper and yanking until he had no choice but to lift his arms so that it could be dragged off over his head. He felt his hair fall into his face, but couldn’t be fussed to care. All he cared about was getting his hands back on that cock. He sat up, straddling Potter’s thighs, and reached for the waistband of the soft denims.  
  
But apparently, Potter had other ideas. In a startling movement, he sat up and somehow twisted. In one moment, Draco was on top straddling him, in the next he was flipped to his back, lying there with his legs spread wide, and Potter was kneeling between his knees with his hardened groin pressed to Draco’s arse, his eyes shining down at him in a predatory manner. The man was such a fascination dichotomy of shyness and boldness that he made Draco’s head spin.  
  
“Impressive,” he said breathlessly. “It would be more effective if there were fewer layers of fabric between. There’s this spell, you know…”  
  
“Nag, nag, nag.” Potter grinned as he went to work on the buttons down Draco’s chest, leaning in to press his mouth to the revealed slope of Draco’s throat. His hair smelled like cloves, and Draco sank his hands into it. It was softer than it looked, seductively so, and he began to card his fingers through it.  
  
“Are you petting me?” Potter asked as his mouth mapped Draco’s skin, his voice full of humor.  
  
“No,” Draco replied shortly, stopping what had indeed been very much like petting. “Seriously, Potter. There are these banishing spells that work wonders on clothes…”  
  
“Pushy damned bottom,” Potter muttered into his skin.  
  
“Excuse me,” Draco retorted, yanking on a handful of that silky hair. Potter lifted his head and grinned down into his eyes. “Bottom?” Draco said archly.  
  
The grin turned distinctly predatory. “Definitely.”  
  
Draco began to argue, but Potter lowered his face back to his throat and instead of kissing it as Draco had expected, he ran his teeth the length of it then bit down, sending a jolt of pure lust right to Draco’s throbbing cock. He arched up with a gasp. “Okay, that part might be negotiable.”  
  
Potter’s dark chuckle, huffed right into Draco’s skin, raised gooseflesh all over his body. Potter’s mouth came back to his, his kisses slower, deeper just when Draco wanted him to go back to being aggressive and domineering. The man was driving him mad; biting, then kissing, gripping, then caressing. Draco was breathless with just trying to keep up. After a few minutes of fumbling with the buttons, however, because apparently Potter’s skills didn’t run to kissing and undressing someone at the same time, he lifted his head, his fingers going to the buttons that marched down Draco’s chest, a slight furrow between his brows that Draco suddenly, inexplicably, found adorable. He reached up, and with tenderness that surprised even him, smoothed it with his fingers.  
  
Potter finally managed to get the shirt open, then caught Draco’s hand and pressed a kiss into his palm. Draco’s fingers curled reflexively even as the gesture made his heart turn over, hard. That was perhaps the most intimate thing anyone had ever done to him, in the myriad moments of intimacy he thought he’d experienced, and they both went very still, staring into one another’s eyes.  
  
Slowly, Potter released Draco’s wrist and pushed himself up to his knees, breathing hard, his eyes wide.  
  
“Potter?” Draco said tentatively, pushing up onto his elbows. Potter didn’t answer. He just stood from the couch, turning and taking several steps, his back to Draco. He was outlined by the light of the fire, each solid muscle in stark relief, and clearly lit enough that Draco could see that he had crossed his arms protectively over his chest. And he was trembling.  
  
Concerned now, Draco sat up, pushing at his hair. “Potter, what is it?”  
  
He saw the square shoulders stiffen, then Potter slowly turned. His eyes were wide, his face drawn.  
  
“What is this to you?” he asked, his voice rough. Draco frowned in incomprehension.  
  
“What?”  
  
“What is this to you, this…” he gestured between the two of them. Draco stared, not sure how to answer. Potter ran his hand through his hair, looking away. “I can’t do this again,” he muttered.  
  
“Wait, do what?” Draco said, sitting on the edge of the couch. Potter was withdrawing; he could feel it as if the warmth were being sucked from the room.  
  
Potter looked back at him, and he looked almost frightened. “Listen, I’m really attracted to you,” he said quickly, then laughed a bit desperately. “Pretty clearly. But I… I don’t  _do_  casual, Draco. I can’t. Not anymore.”  
  
Draco stood slowly. “I don’t understand,” he said softly, but he was rather afraid that he did.  
  
“I don’t want a one off,” Potter said by way of explanation. “I don’t want a fuck buddy. It’s not… how I’m wired.” He shook his head. “I like you, so much. So much that it scares me. So much that I’m really afraid that…” He stopped, his mouth tightening as if he physically had to hold the words back. He took another step back. “This was a mistake.”  
  
“Potter,” Draco said sharply, standing, and Potter stopped, his eyes lifting. “I’m. Not. Him.”  
  
Potter swallowed heavily. “I know that.”  
  
“No, I really don’t think that you do,” Draco retorted. “And to be honest with you, I think I’m a little insulted that you’d lump in the same category.”  
  
“I don’t,” Potter said quickly. “I just…” He stopped, biting his lip. “God, I’m making a mess of this.”  
  
“Yes, you are,” Draco said, not unkindly. “Fortunately for you, I do understand.”  
  
Potter’s shoulders sagged. “Do you?”  
  
“I think so,” Draco said, his voice softening. “You were hurt, really badly, and you’re skittish. And unless I miss my guess, you’ve got Granger and Weasley telling you that I can’t be trusted…”  
  
“They haven’t said that,” Potter said quickly, but his blush put the lie to his words. “They’re just worried about me, that’s all.”  
  
“And I understand that too, much as it pains me to agree with them about  _anything_.” He paused, his hands going to his narrow hips, and he was gratified that Potter’s hesitation didn’t distract him from glancing down at Draco’s chest and then back up again. “Listen,” he said gently, “I understand that it’s an act of faith on your part to trust me at all. We’ve got… a colorful history.” His lips quirked when Potter huffed out a startled laugh.  
  
“Yeah, we’ve tried to kill each other.”  
  
Draco shrugged. “Not recently,” he said wryly. “But if it will make you feel any better, I’m not completely certain where this is headed, myself. I like you.” He paused, studying Potter’s face. “Rather more than I’ve ever liked anyone. And I believe that bears thinking about.” He took another step closer, and reached out and touched Potter’s arm. The skin felt warm and smooth beneath his fingers, and he was relieved when Potter didn’t pull away. “We can slow this down, if it will make you feel more comfortable. But I don’t want to stop seeing you.”  
  
Potter studied his face for a long time, and Draco could see the war going on behind his eyes. Finally, his mouth curved slightly. “I don’t want to stop seeing you, either,” he whispered.  
  
“All right, then,” Draco said, stepping back and buttoning his shirt, then reaching for his jumper. “I’ll owl you tomorrow.”  
  
“Draco, I…” Potter shook his head. “I think I must be mad to let you walk out of here. I just…”  
  
“It’s all right,” Draco said, pulling the jumper over his head. “No harm done.” Potter still frowned, and Draco stepped closer, reaching behind his neck to pull him in and kiss him quickly. “No harm done, Potter,” he repeated, their eyes close. After a moment, Potter nodded, and Draco stepped away, recovering his overcoat and slipping into it. “I’ll be in touch tomorrow.”  
  
Potter took a deep breath and nodded, and Draco smiled at him before he prepared to Apparate away. He needed to talk to his mother.  
  
He had no idea how to court someone, but courting seemed in order. This was reinforced by the look of confused longing he glimpsed on Potter’s face before he spun into space.  
  


~~~***~~~

  
  
When Harry woke the next morning, feeling both hung over after finishing the bottle of wine by himself and completely despondent, he wandered downstairs in his robe, still feeling like the greatest prat in existence. He knew what had freaked him out; he’d pressed that kiss to Draco’s palm and looked into his eyes, and had felt a familiar yearning in his heart. He’d felt it before; the longing for permanence, for  _family_ , for a partner. The problem was, the last time he’d felt it had been an unmitigated disaster. And so he’d panicked, and he wouldn’t blame Draco if he never heard from him again. Just the thought of that made him want to crawl back in bed and pull the blankets over his head, but he made himself move. Made himself start a pot of coffee, made himself drop toast in the toaster, made himself methodically turn to answer the owl pecking at his window that was delivering his morning paper.  
  
Only, when he looked at the owl, it wasn’t the gray that usually delivered the paper; it was Draco’s impressive bird, and Harry crossed to the window and had it open in a heartbeat.  
  
The finicky creature landed on the counter, a small box tied to its leg. Harry’s hands were shaking as he removed it and as he held the small dish for the bird to chose her treat, his eyes never left the white box. Finally the bird gave a soft hoot, almost as if in farewell, and flew away. Harry closed the window, reaching for the note that was slipped beneath the ribbon.  
  
 _Just something that will, hopefully, make you smile. Stop beating yourself up, Potter. We’ll get it sorted.  
  
Draco_  
  
Harry set the note aside thoughtfully, allowing himself to realize that Draco already knew him better than he’d thought. He pulled the green ribbon free and opened the box, and the smell of chocolate lifted to his nose. Bemused, he moved aside the white tissue.  
  
Inside, lined up in three neat little rows, were a dozen small lollipops in the shape of snowmen’s heads, complete with small carrot noses and black dot smiles. As the lid opened, the heads turned as one, and the little mouths opened.  
  
 _Happy Christmas!_  they all said in unison, then one sort of scooted forward, and ponderously cleared its throat, which Harry considered something of an accomplishment considering it didn’t have one.  
  
 _We are made of sumptuous, delicious fudge, direct from the kitchens of Honeydukes,_  it said formally.  _A gift to you from Mr. Draco Malfoy. He would, however, remind you not to eat us all at once. No one likes a fat Gryffindor._  
  
With that, it scooted back into line, and the candies went still. And Harry’s smile turned into a laugh, delight mingled with relief.


	21. A Golden Glow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part:
> 
>  

“Courting,” Narcissa Malfoy said slowly, her face a carefully impassive mask as she lowered herself into the chair in her sitting room, her eyes on her son’s face. “Are you planning on asking some young woman to marry you, Draco?”  
  
Draco rolled his eyes expressively. “Oh yes, because I’m so fond of women, over all.” He sighed. “Perhaps courting is the wrong word…” He paused, biting his lower lip as he mused how to best express what he wanted to know.  
  
“Is it safe to assume that this somehow involves Mr. Potter?” Draco’s eyes shot up and he found his mother studying him. She settled back into the chair, crossing her long legs beneath her robe. “It’s not really such a stretch, my dear. The young man did have a rather… extraordinary tree delivered to our front door. And that was quite an impassioned defense of him that you executed in front of the Ministry of Magic,” she smirked in amusement. “Complete with pyrotechnics.”  
  
Draco allowed himself a slight smile. “Yes,” he said, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. “This is about Potter.” He hesitated before going on. “I like him. Rather a lot.”  
  
Narcissa’s eyes softened. “I was quite certain that you did. Does he return your feelings?”  
  
Draco frowned thoughtfully. “I believe he does, yes.”  
  
“You  _believe_  he does,” she said softly. “But you’re not sure.”  
  
Draco lifted one hand to his chin thoughtfully. “No, actually, I’m fairly certain that he does. But he’s…” He dropped his hand and sighed. “Well, there really is no other word for it. I think he’s afraid.”  
  
“Afraid.” She frowned. “Of you? Surely, he knows that you had nothing to do with your father’s shortcomings, or our families association with the dark arts…”  
  
“No, no, mother,” Draco said quickly. “It’s got nothing to do with father or the lunatic or any of that.” He smirked wryly. “I somehow doubt that would frighten Potter in the slightest. He can handle a dark lord. It’s just a yellow journalist and man whore he had problems with.” She angled her head in unspoken acknowledgment. “No, I believe he’s hesitant to…  _trust_  anyone, let alone me.”  
  
She sighed, then nodded. “Well, that’s not so very hard to understand, is it?” she said. “What that horrid woman and her hired gigolo did to the poor man was unconscionable. I’ve spoken to Andie a bit more about this, and there are some things that you should know…” She hesitated, her lips pressed together.  
  
Draco frowned. “About what?”  
  
She folded her hands in her lap. “About Mr. Potter.”  
  
“I’m listening,” he said.  
  
“I think all of us,” she began, “believed that, because he held such an exalted position in our world, even as an infant, that he was somehow being spoiled and cosseted during his childhood. What Andie told you, about his Uncle, that was the least of it.”  
  
She went on, telling Draco about the conditions Potter grew up in; the fact that until he was eleven he lived in a cupboard under the stairs, that he was made to wear hand-me-down clothes, that his relatives cruelty extended into deprivation and even physical abuse. The more she spoke, the more Draco’s heart began to ache, and the angrier he became on Potter’s behalf.  
  
“But… didn’t Dumbledore know about this? I thought he was omnipresent. What in hell was he thinking, allowing that to go on?”  
  
“I don’t have an answer for that,” Narcissa said faintly. “He seemed to believe that he was better off being raised under those circumstances than as a celebrity, and for the work that he was destined to do, being a spoiled and indulged child might very well have been a detriment.”  
  
Draco grimaced. “Well, being spoiled and indulged certainly didn’t make me the most likely person to stand up against the Dark Lord, did it?”  
  
Narcissa eyed him severely. “Your father made that impossible, Draco. You did the best you could with the situation you found yourself in. But that has nothing to do with Potter.”  
  
“True.” Draco sighed. “I had no idea it was so bad. None at all.”  
  
“I know,” she murmured. “But I do hope, before you decide that a relationship with this man is something you truly want, you’ll take some things into consideration.”  
  
Draco sat back on the settee, waiting for her to continue.  
  
“When a person experiences a childhood like that, it’s only… natural, for them to crave those things which they haven’t had. Home, family, love and acceptance. For all that your childhood was interrupted by you being saddled with ridiculous expectations that should never have been placed on one so young, you could never doubt that you were wanted, and loved.”  
  
Draco nodded in acknowledgment.  
  
“If Mr. Potter did not have issues with trust, I’d think him simple-minded. First, he’s abused by the people who were supposed to care for him, then the first time he allows himself to care for someone else, he’s utterly betrayed. Those things… they leave scars, Draco. Deep emotional scars. Some that may never heal.”  
  
Draco looked into his mother’s light eyes, and saw her concern. “What is it you’re trying to tell me, Mother? That this is a bad idea?”  
  
She sighed softly. “I’m just afraid that he may never be able to completely trust anyone, and that you’ll find yourself hurt. He’s an attractive man, and I’m sure has many wonderful qualities, but he’s damaged, son. Perhaps it’s better not to go down that road to begin with. Perhaps you shouldn’t let yourself become attached.”  
  
Draco grimaced. “Too late.”  
  
She eyed him steadily, unblinking. “Ah, I see. Is it serious?”  
  
Draco paused thoughtfully. “Actually, I believe that it could be.”  
  
She continued to study him, and he fought the urge to fidget. Finally, she inhaled and straightened in her chair. “Well then, there really is only one thing to do.”  
  
“And what’s that?” he asked.  
  
She smiled faintly. “You must prove to him that you’re worthy of his affection.”  
  
He straightened. “And, how do I do that?”  
  
She stood gracefully. “Think about the man, Draco. Think about what you know about him.” She smiled slowly. “Think about what  _he_  needs. And the rest will come to you.”  
  
She paused long enough to press a kiss to his forehead, then left the room.  
  
Draco sat in the spot for a long time, mulling her words.  
  
~~~***~~~  
  
Harry set a dish washing charm on the dishes in the sink and poured tea into the three mugs on the counter, levitating them to the table and fetching a plate of sugary biscuits for desert. Ron and Hermione had come for dinner, as they did every Sunday evening, and they’d dined on Harry’s seafood fettucine and fluffy home baked bread. Now they were settling in with tea and cookies as they caught up on their week. Well, Ron and Hermione talked, and Harry listened. He wasn’t sure he was ready to discuss his week with anyone.  
  
“And of course, Grimsley was completely bent out of shape,” Hermione was saying, “because he wanted the prestige of doing that report, but Merryhew said that no one could do it as well as I could.” She preened a little, and Harry smiled fondly.  
  
“I’m sure he’s right.”  
  
“Hey, mate, what are these?”  
  
Ron had been getting sugar for his tea out of the cupboard and turned with the white Honeyduke’s box in his hands, the lid already opened.  
  
“Uhm, they were a gift.” Harry answered, sure his face was flaring with color.  
  
“What are they?” Hermione asked, her head angled to one side.  
  
Ron held up one of the snowmen pops, grinning. “Cute, huh?”  
  
Hermione laughed. “They’re darling! Who sent them, Harry?” she asked, brown eyes wide. He swallowed, certain she’d know if he lied.  
  
“Draco,” he answered, preparing himself for the inevitable disapproval he’d see on her face. He wasn’t disappointed.  
  
“Malfoy?” Ron said, his brows raised. “Are they candy?”  
  
“Yeah. Fudge.” Harry answered. Ron was still grinning as he closed the lid and put the box back in the cupboard.  
  
“Nice,” he said, crossing to the table and taking his seat. “A bloke could do worse than sending chocolate snowmen.”  
  
“Harry…” Hermione began, the familiar set of her chin preceding the scolding he knew was coming.  
  
“Oh, give it rest, Hermione,” Ron said, shooting her a look. “Malfoy’s not so bad.”  
  
“Malfoy’s not so bad?” she repeated incredulously. “Since when do you think Malfoy’s not so bad?”  
  
Ron shrugged. “Well, the snow wang was a start,” he answered, and Harry couldn’t help but chuckle at the expression on Hermione’s face. “And,” Ron went on reasonably, “George said he was a bit of all right when he came in for the fireworks. He actually liked him.”  
  
“And of course, George is such a wonderful judge of character,” she retorted waspishly.  
  
“Hey, lay off of George,” Ron muttered. “He knows a git when he sees one.”  
  
Harry had about tuned their argument out, grateful that it had taken a turn away from Draco and the snowpops when a sudden bright light outside, shining in the kitchen window, made Harry stand abruptly.  
  
“Harry, what…?”  
  
But he’d already crossed to the window, looking out, trying to ascertain where the light was coming from. It was coming from the front of his house, and he walked briskly through the dining room to the front door, opening it and stepping out onto the porch, Ron and Hermione right behind him.  
  
The moment he’d cleared the door he stopped, staring, his eyes wide.  
  
There was a line of pine trees that grew across the front of his house, all of them still thickly covered in snow. Right in the center there was a perfectly shaped fir, its branches laden with drifts of white. But where it had been just as dark as the others before, it was now ablaze with lights; golden fairy lights, so bright that they lit the yard around it with a warm glow, turning the pristine white snow to gleaming, glittering wonder. He stepped to the edge of the porch, staring.  
  
“What the hell…” Ron murmured.  
  
“Oh, how beautiful,” Hermione breathed.  
  
“But who…”  
  
The words had scarcely left Ron’s mouth when a scroll popped into existence above Harry’s head, tied with a green velvet ribbon that made his heart surge, and floated gracefully into his hand. He slipped the tie free and unrolled the parchment.  
  
_Harry,_  it read, and he blinked. Harry. He’d called him Harry.  _I couldn’t help but notice that you didn’t have a Christmas tree. To me, this seemed a travesty. After you so obligingly sent me the tree that adorns my sitting room, I felt it only fair that I return the favor._  
  
_If ever there was a man who deserved a Christmas tree, and all the wonder the season holds, it’s you. I hope this fills the bill._  
  
_Draco_  
  
“Harry?” Hermione said faintly, but Harry didn’t hear her. He was staring at the glowing Christmas tree, the lights swimming in the sudden moisture that filled his eyes.


	22. Do You Trust Me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part:

The morning after the tree lit up his front yard, Draco’s bird arrived carrying a red box with a large tag that read; for Harry. Inside of it were a black fur hat, an emerald green scarf, and a pair of fur lined gloves. Harry grinned as he picked up the hat; he didn’t think it was exactly his style, but it was exactly like the ones he’d seen Draco wear, and his eyes softened as he touched it. He wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to the idea of gifts meant just for him. There had been many since his first year at Hogwarts, but the first eleven that he’d spent with his relatives had left him with a lingering surprise and wonder each time there was a gift with his name on it.  
  
He handled each of the items carefully; tried on the hat, wrapped the scarf around his throat, and slipped his hands into the luxuriously lined gloves. After grinning sheepishly at his reflection in a mirror, because the hat really was much more Draco than it was him, he sent a note by owl thanking Draco, then put all of the things back in the box and went back to wrapping presents for Teddy in front of his fireplace.  
  
At noon, his doorbell rang, and he looked up in surprise. He wasn’t expecting anyone, and so few people knew where he lived that his heart began to race a bit. He hoped it was Draco; he hadn’t seen him since the night he’d left the house, and he was beginning to be anxious. He could tell from the gifts that continued to arrive that Draco wasn’t upset with him, but he wanted to see him, to tell him… He wasn’t sure what he wanted to tell him. He just knew he needed to see him in person, and so he pushed himself up off of the floor with a rising sense of anticipation.  
  
When he opened the door, his heart sank a bit. There was a huge white box in front of the door, with another hand addressed tag with his name on it, but no tall blond to go with it. Pushing down his disappointment, he picked up the box and carried it into his sitting room, placing it on the sofa. He lifted the lid, and his eyes widened.  
  
It looked like a fur coat to match the hat. The fur was black as pitch and when he touched it, it was as soft and thick as anything he’d ever felt. He ran his hand over it, then lifted it gently from the box, only to find that it wasn’t a coat but a blanket. He stroked it again, marveling at the bluish tints in the black fur, then noticed an envelope in the bottom of the box. Setting the throw aside, he quickly opened the envelope.  
  
 _I bought this because it is the exact shade of your hair,_  it read.  _Black, with hints of blue, and the scarf, because it is the image of the color of your eyes. Even when I’m trying to shop for my mother, I cannot seem to stop thinking of you. I’d like to see you this evening, if you’re free.  
  
Draco_.  
  
Harry grinned, then went in search of a quill.  
  
 _I don’t have any plans,_  he responded,  _other than to spend some time with you. I’ve missed you. What time?  
  
Harry._  
  
He sent the response off by owl, and was faintly surprised when the bird was back in a very short amount of time.  
  
 _Five,_  Draco had written in his elegant hand.  _Dress warmly.  
  
Draco._  
  
“Huh,” Harry muttered. “Dress warmly.” He shrugged. “Why not?”  
  
When four fifty-nine rolled around, Harry was standing in his foyer wearing his long black overcoat over black wool trousers and his black jumper, the green scarf wrapped around his neck, the ends tucked inside, and the hat and gloves in his hands. Chiding himself for being so anxious, he checked his reflection one last time to make sure that his shave was close enough. He was still studying his jaw when, very faintly, he heard the sound of bells. Frowning, he turned and opened his front door.  
  
Unmistakably, growing gradually louder, was the sound of bells ringing. He stepped out onto his porch, turning his head, and his eyes grew wide. Approaching down the long lane that led to his house, through the growing darkness, was a white horse. The closer it got, the louder the bells became, and Harry realized that it wasn’t just a horse; it was a horse, pulling a sleigh through the snow. He began to grin, his hand coming up to cover his mouth.  
  
The horse and sleigh pulled up to the bottom of his steps and halted, and the driver, dapperly attired in a red wool coat and top hat, nodded at him genially. Draco stood up in the back, grinning at him, and Harry could only stare. He was wearing a white fur coat and hat to match, a pale blue scarf wrapped around his throat, and in that moment the scenery seemed designed as an accent for _him_.  
  
“Hello, Potter,” he said brightly, stepping down. “Are you ready to go?”  
  
“I… guess,” Harry answered, shaking his head. “How did you… I mean…” He stopped, laughing. “How did you manage this?” he gestured to the sleigh.  
  
“Good old-fashioned ingenuity and a healthy bank account,” Draco answered brightly, coming to him. “Now, where is the fur lap robe?”  
  
“Oh, it’s inside, on the sofa,” he answered, starting to go to get it but Draco swept by him with a smile, returning with the throw in his hand.  
  
“Shall we?” he said, gesturing grandly towards the sleigh.  
  
“Where are we going?” Harry asked. Draco stepped back in close to him, and instead of answering immediately, he took the hat from Harry’s hand and thoughtfully angling his head to one side, arranged it on Harry’s hair. He was close enough that Harry could smell him, feel the heat from him, and he wanted to lean into it and stay there. He’d missed him but he’d not realized exactly how much, and now that he was there, he wanted nothing more than to put his arms around him and not let go.  
  
“I’ve arranged something special, but I would like to keep the details a surprise, if you don’t mind.” He let his hands drop from Harry’s head, but they came to rest on his chest. “Of course,” he went on softly. “That means that you’re going to have to trust me.” He paused, his light eyes very wide, his expression watchful. “Do you?”  
  
“Trust you?” Harry asked. Slowly, Draco nodded.  
  
It suddenly seemed a very important moment, and Harry studied the handsome face in front of his carefully. He thought he’d seen about every expression possible on that face in the years he’d known Draco Malfoy; hurt, anger, arrogance, fear, malicious glee. And more recently compassion and humor and affection. But he didn’t think he’d ever seen it as open as it was right then.  
  
“You know,” he finally answered. “I believe that I do.”  
  
Draco’s smile was slow, but so bright it was a match for the tree now once again brightly shining in the yard. “Then, let’s go.”  
  
He let Harry precede him into the sleigh and sit, then joined him and made a production of tucking the fur throw around both of their legs. “You’ll want to put on the gloves,” Draco said. “It’s going to be chilly.”  
  
“Oh, I think I have a better idea than the gloves,” Harry answered. Draco looked at him, his brows arched in question, and Harry reached over, catching his hand and pulling it under the throw to rest on his thigh before entwining their fingers. Draco’s eyes dropped to the place where their hands were hidden, then he looked at Harry.  
  
“That will work, too,” he murmured, leaning into his side.  
  
Impulsively, Harry leaned in and kissed him. It wasn’t long; just long enough for a subtle caress, but when he pulled back he felt breathless. “I’m glad you’re here,” he murmured, and Draco squeezed his hand.  
  
“So am I,” he answered, then turned forward and told the driver that they were ready to go. As the sleigh lurched forward and the cold night air brushed his face, and he felt the lithe warmth of Draco all along his side, Harry felt more alive than he had in years.


	23. The Chocolate Hypothesis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part:

The ride through the snowy landscape was brilliant. It was bone-numbingly cold, and Harry’s face felt the brisk sting, but beneath the lavish fur throw it was warm. Especially with Draco pressed against his side, and their hands clasped, their fingers linked.  
  
“Still no hints about where we’re going?” Harry asked, leaning his head close to Draco’s ear to be heard over the sound of the bells, stroking his thumb over his wrist.  
  
“I’ll bet you’re one of those impatient types who rattles his presents before Christmas in order to figure out what’s in them, aren’t you?” Draco replied, his lips twisted in a slight smirk as he squeezed Harry’s hand. “And no, no hints. Patience is a virtue, Potter.”  
  
“Over-rated,” Harry huffed, and Draco’s smirk resolved into a grin.  
  
“You’re such a child,” he teased gently, but the warm weight against Harry’s side increased when he pressed against him.  
  
The sun was setting in the distance beyond the small lake that was one of the scenic highlights in the district. In the spring and summer months the area was usually crowded with visitors, but Harry rather thought he preferred the view as it was; snow covered, the water frozen over, crystal ripples catching the pink and orange dying rays. There was no one else in sight, as if they were the only people around for miles, and in the horse driven sleigh it might have been a hundred years before. He glanced to the side and took in Draco’s elegant profile; in his hat and fur coat, with the pristine scenery behind him, he had a distinctly old-world appearance, like a snow prince from a by gone era. He was gorgeous, the scene was gorgeous, and he took and released a deep breath, feeling both relaxed and excited at the same time.  
  
That was what Draco had done for him, he realized. Since he’d come back into his life, every day had had the giddy excitement he hadn’t experienced, in truth, since he’d first discovered he was a wizard. Every day since he’d first seen that picture of Draco and his ‘snow protest’ in the paper, he’d had reason to smile. He’d laughed more in the last month than he had in the last five years. In fact, he’d enjoyed his life more in the last month than in so long he couldn’t remember, and that had certainly given him food for thought since his emotional knee-jerk reaction the other evening.  
  
He knew why it had happened. In the entire time since he’d come out to his friends when he was twenty-two, he’d not really had a steady relationship. He’d done the club scene, had mostly one night stands, and kept them far away from the people he cared about. Ron and Hermione, and even Ginny, had been kind and supportive but he hadn’t ever met anyone who he thought fit the ‘boyfriend’ roll; the kind you invited home, introduced around, moved in to your flat. Made a life with. And he’d wanted that, desperately. Probably too desperately, or he’d have been more careful when he met Scott. And that had proven to be such an unmitigated disaster that he’d promised himself that he’d never do it again. He’d holed up in his house, basically become a hermit, and nursed his broken heart. He might have gone on that way indefinitely if Draco hadn’t returned to England and gone out of his way to re-introduce himself in the most flamboyant way possible.  
  
He smiled faintly and squeezed Draco’s hand, and felt the grey eyes turn toward him. Lifting their linked hands from beneath the blanket, he caught Draco’s gaze and pressed his lips to the back of the smooth, impeccably manicured hand. He saw Draco catch his breath, saw his eyes darken with desire, and felt a corresponding warmth spread through his body. Whatever this was between them, where ever it led, he would be grateful to Draco forever for reminding him what it felt like to be alive.  
  
He lifted his lips from Draco’s hand and stroked his jaw over the soft skin. “Thank you,” he murmured, staring into the widened eyes.  
  
He saw Draco swallow, his throat working. “You don’t know where we’re going yet,” he murmured.  
  
“It doesn’t matter where we’re going,” Harry responded. “I’m with you; that’s gift enough.”  
  
Draco blinked quickly, clearly moved. “Potter,” he murmured, turning his hand and cupping Harry’s jaw, his thumb moving over Harry’s slightly parted lips. He studied his face for a long moment, his eyes going heavy lidded as they dropped to Harry’s mouth. He angled his head and leaned in, stopping when their lips were a breath apart. “Harry,” he whispered.  
  
“Yes?” Harry breathed in response. Draco’s lips slid sensuously into a slow smile.  
  
“We’re here.”  
  
It wasn’t until that moment that Harry realized that the sleigh had, in fact, stopped. He straightened in surprise and turned, and saw that the driver was standing with the door propped open, an indulgent smile on his face. Behind him was what appeared to be a small rustic cabin, its porch railings swathed in cedar garland and lavish red velvet bows, and an evergreen wreath on the door. Through the windows a soft warm light glowed.  
  
Draco stood up, pulling on Harry’s arm, and gestured for him to step down. He did, his boots crunching in the snow, then turned and held out his hand for Draco to take when he stepped down, which earned him a sly smile.  
  
“Always the gentleman,” he murmured, and Harry grinned.  
  
Draco turned to the driver as he passed. “Go get something warm to drink, Miles,” he said softly. “We may be a while.”  
  
The man grinned and tipped his hat before climbing back up onto his seat, flicking the reins, and driving the sleigh away.  
  
Draco turned to him with a saucy look. “You’re stranded here now, Potter.”  
  
“Well, sure, unless I want to Apparate,” Harry responded with a grin. Draco smacked himself on the forehead playfully.  
  
“That’s what I forgot,” he said, eyes jokingly wide. “Anti-apparition spells! How am I supposed to keep you in my evil clutches if you can just pop out at will?”  
  
“’Guess you’ll have to figure out a way to get me to stay,” Harry retorted, and Draco’s smile was once again sly.  
  
“Oh, I think I can manage to convince you.” He walked up onto the porch with a confident swagger, then turned when his hand was on the door. “Coming, Potter?” he asked. Harry chuckled and followed him onto the porch. Draco opened the door and bowed, doffing his hat. “After you, sir.” Harry shot him a look, then walked inside.  
  
The inside of the cabin was as small as it appeared from the outside; one large room, heavy beam walls, rough wooden floor, and a huge rock fireplace. There was one door off of the back, but everything else appeared to be contained in that one room. There was a cast iron stove and a small table on one side, and a large, overstuffed sofa and chair on the other. The only lighting was coming from the fireplace, and Harry looked in that direction and paused.  
  
A fire was crackling merrily on the grate, but it wasn’t the only source of light. On the hearth, on the floor in front of it, on the mantle and hovering mid-air were dozens of candles, their flames burning brightly. There was a red velvet blanket spread before the fire and next to it was a silver ice bucket with a bottle of champagne chilling, a small crystal tray with two crystal flutes, and another platter of what appeared to be strawberries, cheese and chocolates. Harry took a step closer, his eyes surveying the beautifully arranged tableau. He shook his head.  
  
“You do have flare, Mr. Malfoy. I’ll give you that.” He turned back with a smile, and saw Draco watching him. He looked both pleased with himself, and faintly nervous.  
  
“It’s not too much?” he asked with a charming apprehension that wasn’t at all characteristic. Harry shook his head slowly.  
  
“It’s perfect.” He held out his hand. “Come here.”  
  
Draco went to him, and Harry gently removed the hat from his head and tossed it onto the sofa, slipped the scarf from around his neck, and the white fur from his shoulders. Draco’s eyes remained on his the entire time, wide and watchful. Harry finally turned and laid the coat over the arm of the sofa.  
  
“Why don’t you pour?” he suggested softly, removing his own hat and shrugging out of his coat to lay it on top of Draco’s. It looked heavy and black against the white fur, and for some reason, the sight sent a chill down his spine. “What is this place?” he asked, turning back in time to see Draco gracefully lower himself to the blanket on the floor. He was wearing a white cashmere jumper that clung to his slender musculature and fitted gray wool trousers, and he looked long limbed and graceful as he settled onto the floor.  
  
“Apparently at one time, it was a gamekeeper’s cabin for a nearby estate,” he answered, skillfully popping the champagne cork with little noise and no mess. The glass bottle clinked against the rim of the crystal flutes as he poured. “The estate has been abandoned for several years, as had this cottage.” He shot Harry a smile as he held out a glass. “Until yesterday.”  
  
“How did you find it?” Harry asked, taking the glass and sitting, not nearly as gracefully, on the blanket. Their knees were nearly touching when Draco picked up his own glass.  
  
“I’m resourceful,” he answered simply, and he held up his champagne. “To us,” he murmured. Harry stared into his eyes before touching their glasses together.  
  
“To us.”  
  
They both took a drink, and Harry made an appreciative noise. “Very nice.”  
  
“I’m glad you like it.”  
  
Harry started to reach for a berry, but Draco made a scolding noise. “Ah ah ah, Potter. We’ll do this properly.”  
  
He set his glass aside, and Harry watched as he picked up a small knife and cut a slender slice of the white cheese, added a slice of berry to the top, then held it before his mouth. “Open up,” he said with a teasing glint in his eyes, and Harry did as he was told, allowing himself to be fed. He chewed, and the sweetness of the berry and the nuttiness of the cheese were a perfect compliment to one another.  
  
“That’s good,” he said.  
  
“Now, this.” Draco picked up a chocolate, and Harry willingly opened his mouth. Draco set in on his tongue, and it immediately began to melt, filling his mouth with sweetness. He closed his eyes and moaned.  
  
“That’s sinful,” he said when he swallowed. He opened his eyes to find Draco staring at him, his mouth slightly open.  
  
“What’s sinful,” he said, his voice faintly hoarse, “was the look on your face.”  
  
“What look?”  
  
“The one just this side of orgasm,” Draco replied, trying to sound flippant, but the catch in his delivery gave him away. Harry smiled slowly.  
  
“Trust me,” he murmured, his hand reaching out to touch Draco’s leg. “When I’m just this side of orgasm, I look a bit more excited.”  
  
“You looked fairly keen, Potter,” Draco countered. Harry felt him shiver as he stroked the inside of his knee.  
  
“Well, you’ll have to compare the expressions, and tell me which one you think was the more enthusiastic.” He shifted forward, his palm sliding up the inside of Draco’s thigh. When Draco swallowed this time, Harry watched his Adam’s apple bob in the candlelight.  
  
“And, am I going to get to make comparisons sometime soon?” He muttered. Harry smiled as he let the back of his fingers glide over the front of Draco’s slacks.  
  
“Is now soon enough for you?” Harry asked, turning his hand to palm Draco through the wool. Harry felt him hard in his hand, and heard his breath catch.  
  
“That would certainly be… good.” His eyes met Harry’s, unblinking. “You’re sure about this?” he asked. “I’m not rushing you?”  
  
Harry smiled slowly. “I rather think I’m rushing  _you_.”  
  
He kissed him then, mouth open and tongue searching, the taste of champagne and chocolate mingling between them. Harry eased Draco down onto his back, crawling over him, bringing his weight down slowly, lining his own burgeoning hardness with Draco’s and slowly rolling his hips forward. Draco gasped into his mouth, his hands lifting to Harry’s hair, his back arching.  
  
“Too many clothes,” he muttered, one hand sliding down Harry’s back then up under his jumper until he found skin. “Too many bloody clothes.”  
  
“Patience is a virtue, Malfoy,” Harry teased, mouthing Draco’s neck. Draco smacked him smartly on his arse.  
  
“Oh, do shut up,” he grumbled, and Harry laughed against his skin.  
  
Shoes, socks, jumpers and trousers were tossed away recklessly between kisses and caresses, pants were pealed away more slowly, with the air of unwrapping a long desired Christmas gift. When Draco finally held Harry’s hard cock in his hand, he stroked his fingers along the length almost reverently.  
  
“Gods, you’re beautiful,” he murmured, running the tip of his pointed nose along Harry’s length, then burying it in the black curls at its base as he took him smoothly into his mouth, then his throat. Harry gasped, one hand fisting in Draco’s hair, groaning as he pulled back, then sank down again.  
  
“Fuck,” Harry wheezed, his neck arching. “Fuck!”  
  
“Next time,” Draco murmured as he lifted his head, stroking Harry briskly with his fist, his palm slick with his own saliva.  
  
“Not so fast,” Harry gasped, grabbing his wrist. “I need… I want…”  
  
“Let’s use our words, Potter,” Draco teased, then squeaked when Harry easily lifted him and deposited him once again on his back, taking the smooth, tapered length of Draco’s cock in his hand.  
  
“Sometimes actions are better,” he growled, and Draco couldn’t help but agree when Harry lowered his head and licked him from base to tip, then maneuvered himself onto one arm over the top of him, his fist closing around both of their cocks, squeezing them together. Draco gave a strangled cry when Harry thrust through his hand, his cock rubbing the length of Draco’s.  
  
“Oh, gods,” he muttered. “Oh, gods,” he said more loudly when Harry moved against him again. He bucked up in response, his fingers digging into Harry’s biceps. “That’s so good.” Harry paused and stroked both of them up and down hard, foreskins sliding back and slick heads rubbing, and Draco made a gurgling sound in his throat, his fingers digging in hard. “I want your weight,” he said, reaching up and wrapping his hand around Harry’s nape. Harry looked from his hand into Draco’s eyes. “I want to feel you on me.”  
  
Harry moaned, slipping his hand from between them and wrapping both arms around Draco, pressing him into the floor. Draco gasped in response, his arms going around Harry’s torso, his legs locking around his hips. Their cocks lined up between their bodies, and they began to move, the rhythm perfect, sweat and pre-come providing a slick glide of cock against cock. Draco felt lithe and strong beneath him, hips moving smoothly in time with his as he muttered a string of curses and encouragement in Harry’s ear. Finally, when every muscle in his body was screaming for release and Harry didn’t think he could last a moment longer, Draco went stiff beneath him with a startled cry, and Harry felt the heat of his orgasm shoot onto his stomach. As Draco shuddered Harry moved harder through the thick warmth and came with a bone-melting rush, his back arching and his head thrown back. He hung there for a long, trembling moment, then collapsed on Draco, his face pressed against his throat.  
  
They lay entwined for a long time. Harry rolled to his side to remove his weight, but he didn’t loosen his hold on the slender body in his arms. Finally, breathing quieted and sweat beginning to dry on their skin, Draco pressed a kiss to Harry’s throat, then reached for the edge of the blanket, pulling it over their shoulders, cocooning them in warmth. Silence broken only by the soft popping of the fire held for a very long time. Harry was drifting, drowsy and replete, when Draco finally spoke again.  
  
“So, I’ve done the research,” he said after clearing his throat, “and I now believe that I can make an assessment of your previous hypothesis.”  
  
Harry blinked sleepily. “I made a hypothesis?” he mumbled.  
  
“You did,” Draco replied, his fingers stroking through Harry’s damp hair. “And you’re absolutely correct. You’re orgasm face is infinitely more enthusiastic.”  
  
Harry grinned. “Told you.”  
  
“I assure you, Potter,” Draco began, but the words were muffled into silence when Harry pressed his mouth over his lips.


	24. Visitor to a Parallel Universe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part:

Draco couldn’t help it. He knew he had a sappy grin on his face, and as he walked briskly down Diagon Alley, he was whistling along with the Christmas Carols that the ghostly choir at the end of the street was singing. He’d thought they were a fixture in Hogsmeade, but he supposed they could probably turn up wherever they wanted. And he rather liked the discordant twist they were putting on God Rest You, Merry Gentlemen. He smirked, then giggled. God Rest You, indeed, he thought. Especially if you’re already dead! He chortled outright at his own quip, ignoring the looks he received from people passing. He was simply in too good a mood to care today. Christmas was in two days, it had begun to snow lightly, and he’d had two rather mind-melting orgasms just the night before. If ever there was a recipe for a relaxed, happy Draco, that was it.  
  
Even his mother had commented on it that morning over breakfast.  
  
“Well,” she said, unfolding her napkin and laying it in her lap, her light eyes sparkling. “You certainly seem quite pleased with yourself.”  
  
“Do I?” he answered noncommittally, but hadn’t been able to keep the smile from his face.  
  
“You know that you do,” she replied, one brow arching. “I believe my mother used to refer to that expression as the ‘cat who ate the canary’ face.”  
  
Draco couldn’t help the wicked turn his grin took.  _Someone ate something,_  he thought, but wisely kept his mouth shut.  
  
And now he was shopping, something else he loved to do. Especially today. Today, he was shopping, even though he’d left a dozen flawlessly wrapped gifts under the tree that morning. But this one was the last one for Potter, and he wanted it to be perfect. And the irony of that sentiment wasn’t lost on him.  
  
Something perfect for Potter, he mused, his smile softening. Because the man was, quite simply, perfect. Oh, he wasn’t ready to tell  _him_  that yet, he reflected. But he knew it as sure as he knew his own name; Harry Potter might not be the perfect man, but he was the perfect man  _for him_.  
  
Draco was not by any stretch of the imagination inexperienced sexually. During his early twenties in Belgium, he’d been something of a man whore, to be blunt. Most weekends had seen him with a different partner, and he’d accumulated a fair amount of technique during those encounters. And he could safely say, after one night with Potter, that he’d never felt anything like that before in his life. He’d come so hard he’d blacked out the second time, and they hadn’t even fucked yet. He shivered a bit at the memory. No, Potter seemed to know just where to touch him, when to do it, with a precision that was almost surgical. Not that there was anything whatsoever clinical about Potter’s performance; he had sex the way he did most things; with unfettered enthusiasm. In fact, Draco mused as he stared in a store front window at a display of jewelry, Potter didn’t just ‘have sex’. Potter made love, and that made all the difference in the world.  
  
He turned from the window, his eyes thoughtful. He’d fucked a lot in his life, even fancied himself something of a connoisseur. But he wasn’t sure he’d ever been ‘made love’ to before, and it was a wholly humbling experience. And after the sex? Potter was s cuddler. His lips pulled up in a soft smile. Funny; although a few days ago he’d have denied it emphatically, apparently he was, too. They’d lain wrapped in the red velvet blanket for a long time after the first time, feeding each other chocolates and berries, serving each other sips of champagne, until Potter had intentionally trickled some of the bubbly onto his stomach and then proceeded to lick it off… Draco shivered again. That was a memory he thought might stay with him forever.  
  
He was still thinking about it fondly when he passed Flourish and Bott’s. There was a sign in the front window, huge glowing red letters on white, and he stopped in his tracks.  
  
 _ **Book signing Today!**_  it trumpeted in letters two feet tall.  ** _Come and meet Rita Skeeter and Scott Richards, author’s of the best selling unauthorized biography of Wizarding Hero, Harry Potter, “A Paper Lion”!_**  
  
In smaller letters, it listed the time, and Draco pushed up his sleeve and looked at his watch. They were advertised as being there from two to four p.m., and it was three fifteen. He was meeting Potter for dinner at seven. He had plenty of time. Shoulders set and jaw hard, he pushed through the passing crowd and into the store.  
  
He’d be lying if he said that he wasn’t gratified to see that the queue was very short in front of the table where Skeeter sat in her over-coiffed glory, her blonde ringlets tortured into place and her rhinestone adorned glasses perched on her short nose. She was wearing a truly hideous pink satin jacket that made her look like a stuffed sausage. Draco spared her scarcely a look, his eyes going instead to the man seated at her side. And he sneered.  
  
Oh, Richard’s was good-looking, he supposed, in that completely innocuous, boy next door sort of way. His dark hair was wavy, his jaw was square, his shoulders acceptably broad. All in all he looked about as interesting as an underwear model for some Muggle catalog, but he supposed he wasn’t hideous, either. He couldn’t see why someone as spectacular as Potter had settled for him, but then Potter had no idea of his own appeal. Which, all in all, was probably a good thing.  
  
There was a stack of the book in question on a front table, and Draco glared at it, then saw an adjoining table where they’d placed books of similar subject matter. He saw the one that he wanted instantly, picked it up, and joined the short line.  
  
“Why, thank you,” Skeeter was saying. “And no, I don’t worry about Potter’s reaction to the book. The public has a right to know who they’re making a hero, don’t they?” She looked at the woman standing in front of her, batting her ridiculously long fake lashes and handing her a book. “Remember, I’ve known Potter for  _years_ , since he was ten years old. Neither he or Dumbledore ever had me fooled.”  
  
The woman murmured something and stepped away, and Draco had only one person in front of him before he reached the table. The young man had Richard’s sign his book first, then stepped over in front of Skeeter, leaving the spot in front of Richard’s clear. Draco stepped forward and dropped the book in his hand onto the table. It landed with a satisfying ‘thwack’.  
  
Richard’s stared at the cover, then looked up at Draco with a frown. “Uhm, I’m sorry,” he said, light eyes confused. “I think you picked up the wrong book.”  
  
“Oh, I picked up the right book,” Draco drawled. “I just thought perhaps you’d like to read some of the truth about the man whose character you attempted to assassinate. If you’ve relied on Skeeter for your information, that might explain why you took such a risk with your own personal safety.”  
  
Richard’s frowned vacantly, then looked down at the book on the table in front of him.  
  
 _“The Second War Against Voldemort”,_  the title read, and beneath that, in smaller letters,  _Defining Heroism, by Hermione Jane Granger._  
  
“This was the bestseller that came out right after the war,” Draco went on dryly. “But apparently, some people have appallingly short memories.”  
  
“I…” Richard’s frowned. “I don’t understand. What did you mean, ‘my personal safety’…”  
  
“Just that you’re lucky Potter is a gentleman,” Draco retorted sharply. “He could have incinerated you with a wave of his hand, but that’s too humane for me. If you’d done that to me, I’d have cut off your balls and fed them to a pack of rabid dogs.”  
  
“Hey,” Richard’s protested, finally realizing that the man standing in front of him wasn’t all that happy to meet him. “There’s no cause to be rude, now.”  
  
“Rude?” Draco laughed incredulously. “ _I’m_  rude? You idiotic fuckwit. Rude is seducing someone, then selling the details to a no talent hack so she can use you to write complete crap. Rude is hiding camera’s in a man’s flat to record his every moment without telling him. Fuck rude; it’s probably illegal, as well.” Draco was just getting warmed up when a smooth voice interrupted him.  
  
“Why, if it isn’t young Malfoy.”  
  
He turned to look at Skeeter, who was eyeing him with a cold smile.  
  
“How’s Mum holding up since Daddy bought it in the big house?”  
  
Draco’s eyes narrowed. “Careful, Rita,” he hissed. “I have no compunction about transfiguring you into a particularly hideous dog. Oh, wait…”  
  
She smirked. “Very clever, Draco. You always were so very witty.” Her eyes grew malicious. “Is that what Potter sees in you, that disarming wit?” She eyed him up and down insultingly. “Or is your other… attributes? Word on the street is that you’re the newest fuck toy. My, my, how things have changed. Grabbing your ankles for a half-blood? Whatever would your father say?”  
  
Richard’s eyes widened. “Wait, he’s with Harry?”  
  
Draco hissed at him. “How dare you even say his name?” he growled. “You aren’t fit to breathe the same air he does.”  
  
“Oh, and you’ve always been his champion, haven’t you, Malfoy?” Skeeter retorted. “I seem to remember a time when you did everything you could to undermine the ‘golden boy’, including feeding me stories about how ‘dangerously unbalanced’ he was...”  
  
“I was fifteen,” he shot back, but he could feel himself blushing, and Skeeter’s eyes sharpened.  
  
“You hated him,” she shot back triumphantly. “Which simply leads to the question; what are  _you_  using him for, Malfoy? A chance to help restore your family’s respectability by bending over for Potter? Or are you going to blackmail him with dirty pictures? You’re no better than I am. Don’t stand there and pretend that you are!”  
  
“I don’t pretend that I’m good enough for him,” Draco shot back. “I know who I am, Rita. I know what I did. I’m not proud of it.”  
  
She laughed viciously. “You were plenty proud of yourself at the time.” Her gaze on his face sharpened.“Gods, you’re in love with him, aren’t you?”  
  
Draco felt as if she’d slapped him. He took a step back, stunned by her words. ‘Was he?’ he thought a bit wildly. Was he in love with Potter? It was too soon, but his heart surged in his chest at the thought.  
  
She shook her head almost pityingly. “He won’t stay with you, you know,” she said, her eyes like shards of ice. “You  _aren’t_  good enough for him. And he won’t be able to trust anyone. Scott here will have made sure of that. He’s going to start questioning what your motives are. His little friends will whisper warnings in his ear; Granger is like a pit bull. She won’t let you hurt him. And then what will happen to you?” Her face took on a patently false sympathy. “Poor Draco; you’ll be put out like the rubbish.”  
  
“Speaking of rubbish.”  
  
A sharp voice interrupted her, and they all turned. Ron Weasley was standing off to the side, his arms crossed over his chest, his face mulish. At his elbow was his wife, her eyes flinty as she looked at Skeeter.  
  
“Button it, Skeeter,” Weasley growled. “You haven’t a clue what you’re talking about. Again. But why should that be a novelty? You’ve shoveled more shite that a stable boy.” He stepped forward and patted Draco on the back. “Hey, mate, we were wondering what was keeping you. Did you find that item you were looking for for Harry?”  
  
“I…” Draco began, then shook his head. He’d felt distinctly as if he’d entered a parallel universe without knowing it.  
  
“It’s all right,  _Draco_ ,” Granger said, smiling fetchingly and coming forward to take his arm. “It won’t matter what you buy him. As long as it’s from  _you_ ,” she sent Richards an icy smile, “it will make him happy.” She glared at Richard’s, who stared at her as if she were a ghost. “Hello, Scott. So nice to see you again.” She lowered her voice and leaned forward. “Be very, very glad that you’re in public, you scum. I’d love nothing more than to hex you with terminal ass rot.”  
  
Richard’s eyes widened almost comically as Weasley chuckled. “She’d do it, too,” he said jovially. “All right, then. All of this shopping has left me parched. Up for a pint, mate?” He asked Draco. He was so flummoxed he could only nod in response.  
  
“Good, we’ll go to the Leaky,” Granger said brightly, then fixed her eyes on Skeeter. “But I need to stop by Sprouts and Son.” She smiled sweetly. “We’re out of insect spray, and there’s this pesky beetle that I’ve been longing to do away with…”  
  
That startled a laugh out of Draco, and Granger sent him a bright smile. Skeeter eyed them both with disdain.  
  
“Enjoy yourselves,” she snarled. “My sources tell me that this book so completely destroyed Potter that he nearly  _died_  of shame…”  
  
“Don’t flatter yourself, Rita,” Granger said lightly. “He had pneumonia. Nothing either of you can do can hurt Harry any more. He’s moved on.” She looked up at Draco, her eyes level. “To a much better man.”  
  
Draco caught his breath.  
  
“And given the overwhelming response that this book signing is receiving--,” she glanced behind herself pointedly at the complete absence of a line, “—I’d say that your fifteen minutes is about up.” She looked up a Draco again, her head angled to one side. “Shall we?”  
  
“Of course,” he murmured, and allowed himself to the escorted from the store, Weasley following right behind. They were outside on the street and headed toward the Leaky Cauldron, Weasley on one side and Granger on the other, when he finally regained use of his voice.  
  
“Granger,” he said softly, but she shook her head without looking at him.  
  
“We heard what you said to them,” she said softly. “And…” She looked up at him. “We wanted to thank you for standing up for Harry. He didn’t deserve what they did to him.” She paused. “But I want you to understand that if you hurt him, I will hex your bollocks off without a second thought. Do you understand me?”  
  
He blinked, then nodded faintly.  
  
“Good.”  
  
She marched ahead toward the back entrance to the Leaky Cauldron, her full brown curls bouncing as she walked.  
  
Weasley came up to his side and patted him on the shoulder with a companionable grin. “Now that that’s all sorted, ready for that drink?”  
  
“I believe I’m in need of one,” Draco responded weakly. Weasley chuckled.  
  
“I’ll just bet.” He followed his wife through the door, and Draco trailed along behind, still trying to figure out what had just happened.


	25. Dinner With the Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part:

Harry stood before the mirror hanging over his mantle, straightening his collar and trying to flatten that one ridiculous cowlick on the crown of his head when his front doorbell rang. He ran his hands over his hair one last time, then gave it up as a lost cause and turned to go to the door. Draco was early, he thought with a slight smile. He hoped that meant he was as eager to see Harry as Harry was to see him.  
  
Their night in the small cabin had been nothing short of miraculous as far as Harry was concerned. He’d never experienced anything quite like it. Draco was probably the most responsive lover he’d ever been with, and just thinking about it made him feel warm once again. Harry was a very demonstrative partner; he loved to touch, to stroke, to kiss, to take his time. He enjoyed the process as much as he enjoyed the culmination. A lot of the men he’d been with had just wanted to get off; they didn’t like to be held, to be caressed, to be cherished. They wanted the orgasm. Well, he wanted the orgasm, too, but he loved to hold a man in his arms first, to draw out the pleasure. In Draco, he’d found the perfect counterpoint. Draco arched into each touch, sighed into each kiss. He was as malleable as putty, gracefully responding to each press of Harry’s hands or lips, and being with him had been as close to perfect as he’d ever hoped to experience. So perfect, in fact, that Harry had spent most of the day imagining what it would be like the next time. Those thoughts had led to an extended wanking session in the shower in the hope that when they did finally get horizontal, he wouldn’t embarrass himself by coming too soon. Then, Hermione’s owl had arrived, and he’d had another whole reason to be anxious about Draco’s visit.  
  
He opened the front door and found Draco standing on his porch, wearing a grey wool overcoat and thick white scarf over darker slacks. His hair was impeccable and his eyes were wide, and he was holding a brightly wrapped package in his gloved hands.  
  
“Hi,” Harry said with a soft smile.  
  
“Hello,” Draco answered, his lips turning up in response. They stared at each other, then Harry remembered himself and stepped back, tacitly inviting Draco inside. They paused there in the entryway as Harry took the package and laid it aside in order to help Draco out of his coat and scarf. When both were deposited on the coat rack, Harry stepped back in front of Draco and ran the palm of his hands up his slender arms. He was wearing a charcoal grey silk shirt, and the fabric felt almost alive under Harry’s hands. When Draco shivered in response, Harry caught his upper arms and pulled him in to kiss him slowly.  
  
He tasted of peppermint and chocolate, two flavors that Harry would now always associate with Draco, and he smiled against his lips.  
  
“You’ve been eating candy,” he murmured, flicking Draco’s lower lip with his tongue.  
  
“Honeyduke’s Mint Truffles,” Draco answered, sighing softly when Harry’s lips detoured to his neck. “I can get some for you, if you like. They’re sinful.”  
  
“You’re sinful,” Harry said against his throat. “And I’ll just taste them on you, thanks.”  
  
Draco made a soft noise of appreciation when Harry sucked some of the pale skin of his throat into his mouth, angling his hips forward to press against Harry’s groin. Harry returned the pressure, one hand sliding down Draco’s back and over the taut curve of his arse. Harry now knew that one of the finest bum’s in England resided within the wool trousers, and he opened his palm on the round globe, then squeezed. Draco’s head dropped back on a hitched breath.  
  
“Potter,” he gasped as Harry continued to mouth his throat. “You’re going to leave a mark.”  
  
“Uh-huh,” Harry responded, biting lightly with his teeth. Draco shuddered from his head to his toes.  
  
“My mother is going to ask about that,” he went on, one hand lifting to Harry’s head, fingers carding through his thick hair.  
  
“So, tell her the truth,” Harry said. “That I can’t keep my mouth off of you.” Draco pressed closer, his other hand stoking over the dark green cable knit covering Harry’s back.  
  
“I suppose wearing a high collar is a small price to pay,” he said with a long suffering sigh, and Harry chuckled, then stood back and smiled into his eyes.  
  
“The things you’re willing to sacrifice for me,” he teased, then took Draco’s hand to pull him into the sitting room. Draco reached out to grab the package as they passed, then allowed himself to be led to the couch.  
  
Harry paused near the mantle. There was a small, elegantly wrapped package sitting in the center of it, and he picked it up and joined Draco on the couch.  
  
“This is for you,” he said, placing it on Draco’s knee with an expectant air. He’d known it was right the moment he’d seen it, and he couldn’t wait to see Draco’s reaction. Draco handed him the brightly wrapped package he was holding with a smile.  
  
“And this is for you.”  
  
“You go first,” Harry prodded, placing his present on the cushion beside him. Draco glanced at him askance, but did as he asked, removing the green velvet ribbon carefully, pulling the silver paper free to find the black velvet box with the gold monogram. He frowned slightly. “Potter, this is from Fortier’s…” Fortier’s was the foremost wizard jeweler in England. He wasn’t surprised that Draco recognized their distinctive box. He shrugged negligently in reply, but saw the tremor that moved through Draco’s hand as he flicked open the latch and slowly opened the box.  
  
Harry wasn’t looking at the gift; he knew what it was. The moment he’d stepped into the jeweler, the bracelet had caught his eye. Masculine of line and yet slender and elegant, the silver was artfully shaped into a rearing dragon, body made to curl around the wrist, wings posed half open. The lines were so fluid that when the light caught the metal it appeared to be alive, and the tiny emeralds in the eyes caught the fire’s glow. He saw them flash out of the corner of his eye, but he was watching Draco’s face, saw his mouth drop open slightly, saw the quicksilver eyes widen. “Harry,” he breathed. “Gods, this had to have cost a bloody fortune.” He lifted his eyes. “It’s magnificent, but it’s too much.”  
  
“Do you like it?” Harry asked, suddenly wondering if he’d done the wrong thing.  
  
“Are you mad? It’s exquisite.” He held it up to the light, studying it. “Absolutely exquisite,” he breathed, turning it to catch more of the light.  
  
Harry reached out and took it from him, lifting the bracelet from the box, putting it around Draco’s slender wrist, then holding his hand to admire it. “When I saw it, I knew it was perfect.” He looked up into Draco’s eyes. “And it is, see?”  
  
Draco glanced down at the jewelry, saw the way that it seemed to caress his skin, saw that the dragon’s tail actually seemed to be clinging to the curve of his arm, and could only agree. “It’s beautiful,” he murmured, then lifted his eyes to Harry’s. “I love it.”  
  
Harry knew that he was smiling like a fool, but he didn’t care. The look on Draco’s face was worth it. But then he glanced at the package next to Harry and bit his lip.  
  
“Mine is going to seem ridiculous in comparison,” he murmured.  
  
“I don’t believe that for a moment,” Harry countered.  
  
“Really, you should let me take it back,” Draco went on, sounding honestly chagrined, and Harry just shook his head.  
  
“Not on your life,” he replied, beginning to pull at the ribbon on the package. “Besides, you’ve already gotten me some of the most amazing Christmas gifts I’ve ever gotten in my life. There’s no way this could be anything but terrific…”  
  
He had the ribbon and the paper removed and tossed aside, and opened the lid of the box. There was tissue paper obscuring the gift, and he shot Draco a look, startled to see the he actually looked uncomfortable. “Draco, it’s fine…” he said, pushed the paper aside, then stopped when he saw what was there.  
  
It was a book, a small one, the cover faded and one corner of it frayed. Clearly, it had been read and re-read dozens of times; the binding was slightly grubby and there were smudge marks around the edges. He lifted it out carefully. On the cover was a beautiful illustration of Hogwarts, and beneath it were the words “A Future Student’s Handbook”. Harry ran his fingers over the title and looked up into Draco’s eyes.  
  
Draco was biting his lower lip. “I wanted to give you something special, something perfect. I looked and looked, and then I thought…” he paused, his own hand reaching out. Harry saw that his fingers were trembling slightly. “My mother told me that every magical child born receives a copy of this book automatically at birth; that it has something to do with the castle’s sentient magic. There’s a registry, in the Head’s office, that automatically lists each future student and this goes out to the parents. In it, there’s a wonderful sort of child’s story about Hogwarts, and the Founders. But there’s also a list…” He opened the cover and thumbed through it, finally stopping at a page near the back. “See? Our class.”  
  
Harry looked at the list, swallowing heavily. At the top was printed ‘Hogwarts Class of 1998’, and beneath it were a list of names. He glanced down and saw Draco’s name, and his own. And Hermione’s, and Ron’s. There was Seamus and Dean, and Neville. But there was also Lavendar Brown, and Vincent Crabbe.  
  
“I figured that, with what happened to your parents, yours was probably lost. I know how you feel about the place…” Harry had to swallow around the lump in his throat, and looked up into Draco’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” Draco muttered, reaching for the book. “It was a foolish impulse…”  
  
Harry caught his wrist and held on, his eyes on Draco’s face. “It wasn’t,” his said, his throat tight. “It’s… perfect.” He looked down and ran his other hand over the cover. “You’re right; mine must have been lost after…” He cleared his throat. “I love it,” he said, looking up again. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”  
  
Draco shook his head from side to side. “I’m far from perfect,” he protested. “I’m spoiled and I’m selfish, and I think I’m right all of the time. I’m argumentative and a terrible snob, and…”  
  
“And you faced down Skeeter and Scott today in Flourish and Bott’s for no good reason other than you were defending me.”  
  
Draco stopped, his mouth slightly open, and blinked. “I… how did you know about that?” Harry cocked an eyebrow expressively, and Draco rolled his eyes. “Granger,” he said softly, and Harry chuckled.  
  
“You impressed the hell out of her, you know,” he said softly. “And that doesn’t happen often. Ron’s been okay with this for a while, but Hermione…” He let his voice trail off and shook his head. “She’s stubborn, and hard-headed, and fiercely protective. Much like someone else I know.”  
  
Draco colored and looked away, and Harry reached out and caught his slightly pointed chin, bringing his eyes back. “I love that you did that. I love that you stood up for me; I should have done it myself.”  
  
“You’re right,” Draco said intently. “You should have.”  
  
“I know,” Harry answered softly. “And I’ve decided, after the first of the year, to see if I have grounds for a lawsuit. It will bring all of the old scandal up again, but if it keeps her from doing this to someone else…it will be worth it.”  
  
“I’ll stand next to you through the whole thing,” Draco promised.  
  
“I know,” Harry answered, staring into his eyes. “It’s what makes it possible for me to do it.”  
  
They stared at each other for a long time before Harry spoke again.  
  
“Do you remember the other night, when I told you that I didn’t want a one off; that I wanted something more?” Draco nodded tentatively. “I want it with you, Draco. I know its fast, I know we haven’t been together long, but I know what I want, and I can only hope that you want the same thing, because…”  
  
Draco put his fingers in front of Harry’s mouth, stopping the rapid flow of words. He smiled at him slowly, but his eyes were so full of warmth that Harry allowed himself to hope.  
  
“Did anyone ever tell you that you talk too much?” he whispered.  
  
“Everyone,” Harry admitted. “Hermione says I babble when I’m nervous.”  
  
“Much as it pains me to admit it…” Draco’s smile widened. “She’s right. But you need to remember something, Potter.” He was murmuring now, leaning closer, his eyes on Harry’s mouth.  
  
“What’s that?” Harry asked breathlessly.  
  
“You’re infinitely more persuasive when the only words you utter are ‘yes’, ‘now’, and ‘more’.”  
  
Harry’s lips curved up in a smile. “Yes, now, and more,” he said softly, angling his head as he neared Draco’s mouth.  
  
“Honestly, Potter,” Draco teased, his hand coming up to cradle Harry’s face. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, here.”  
  
Harry chuckled, the end of it directly into Draco’s open mouth.  
  
~~~***~~~  
  
  
It was every bit as cataclysmic as the first time, Draco thought as immediately following that disarming chuckle, Potter had begun to remove his clothes. No banishing charms for Potter; he was a very ‘hands on’ sort of individual. And his hands… Draco shivered at the brush of a warm, slightly calloused palm over his sides, his flank, his thighs. He floated in a wonderful erotic lassitude as his clothes were skillfully stripped away, leaving him lying naked and almost painfully aroused on the plush sofa. When Potter himself was naked, his cock thick and hard against his own belly, Draco reached out to touch it, but Potter caught his hand.  
  
“Let me,” he whispered. “Just… let me.”  
  
“Who am I to argue?” Draco asked wryly, stretching, watching Potter’s eyes as he studied the flex and pull of muscle under his skin.  
  
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, that lovely hand back, stroking over Draco’s stomach, then up to his chest. He saw the faint tracing of the scars, and went still. Draco knew that he’d seen them the night before, but now he traced them with his fingers.  
  
“I didn’t know what it did,” he murmured, his brow furrowing as he traced them. “I was so stupid.”  
  
Draco reached up and gently ran his finger down the bridge of Potter’s nose, touching the slight hook that had not been there before their sixth year. “I did know what I was doing,” he said softly. “Which made me even more stupid.”  
  
They stared into each other’s eyes. “We’ve come a long way,” Potter said with a slight smirk that Draco found almost unbearably sexy.  
  
“From hexes to naked,” Draco quipped. “Astounding.”  
  
“I was thinking more along the lines of; from hating, to…” he paused, his fingers moving to circle one hard nipple, stroking it maddeningly. “Not,” he finished, and Draco smiled even as his back arched.  
  
“Definitely not.”  
  
Everything after that was a euphoric haze to Draco; the glow of the fire, the heat of it, the heat of Potter’s body on his, the way the muscle and sinew moved under the smooth, tawny skin. When Potter took him into his mouth, he gasped. When a dampened finger slipped between his arse cheeks, ghosting over the most sensitive part of him, he moaned. When it slipped slowly, smoothly inside of him, curling, pressing up, finding a spot that set fireworks off behind his eyes, he cried out, his cock bobbing dangerously.  
  
“Breathe, Draco,” Potter murmured against his stomach. “Relax, and breathe.”  
  
“We’ll see if you can breathe when I have my fingers up your arse,” he ground out, and Potter laughed, pressing harder. If his other hand hadn’t been gripping the base of Draco’s cock, he’d have shot right then. “You cruel bastard,” he panted, his body writhing.  
  
“I’ll make it up to you,” Potter said with a wicked smile. “I promise.”  
  
And then there had been slickness, and more fingers, and Draco was a near incoherent mess, begging and writhing, by the time Potter lined himself up and slid slowly inside. It was tight, and it burned, and he hissed.  
  
“Breathe,” Potter said again, holding very still, allowing him to get accustomed to the fullness.  
  
“I’ll have you know,” he said between clenched teeth, looking up into Potter’s face, “I don’t do this for everyone.”  
  
“Well, I would hope not,” Potter quipped, and Draco smacked him in the middle of his chest. The middle of his distractingly muscled chest. Then he began to move, and that muscled chest flexed, and his abs stood out in bold relief with each slow thrust, and Draco almost forgot the burn and the feeling of invasion. Almost. His cock had flagged a bit at the pain, but Potter proved to be rather ambidextrous, and reached between them, curling his fingers around him, smoothing more slickness onto this length. Potter watched his face as he sat back slightly, changing his angle, thrusting up in rhythm with the movement of his hand, and Draco cried out when the curve of his cock stroked the sensitive place inside of him.  
  
“There?” Potter asked, moving again. Draco’s only answer was a garbled moan, and Potter grinned. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’.”  
  
“I will kill you,” Draco managed, to a renewed chuckle, but there was no more conversation at all as Potter began to move into him with short, sharp thrusts. Draco’s nails dug into muscular biceps and he held on, back arched, legs locked around Potter’s narrow hips. It was an all out assault on his senses, and he couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe…  
  
“Are you close?” he heard from far away. “Draco, are you close?”  
  
“I… ugh… yeah, I… Oh, gods!”  
  
“That’s it, love,” he heard faintly. “That’s it…”  
  
And then he was coming, and crying out, and jerking gracelessly in the hold of an orgasm so intense that his vision went gray and his ears rang with the rush of his own blood as he was driven into the sofa, and into blissful darkness…  
  


~~~***~~~

  
  
“Draco?”  
  
He moaned, turning his head away from the noise. It was nice where he was; floating, boneless, an unformed mass of completely satisfied nerve endings.  
  
“Draco, are you all right?”  
  
“Mumph,” he muttered, hoping it sounded positive rather than negative.  
  
“I didn’t hurt you, did I?”  
  
He felt a hand stroke gently over his face, and he found he could smile.  
  
“Ah, there he is.” He felt lips brush against his own, then on his cheek, then his chin. “I guess the smile means that I didn’t do any permanent damage?”  
  
Draco swallowed around the dryness in his throat. “I don’t know about that,” he said hoarsely. “I may walk bow legged for a week.”  
  
He heard Harry chuckle, but more than that,  _felt_  him chuckle in each inflamed nerve ending, and realized that he was still inside of him. And hard.  
  
“Do not tell me that you reduced me to a puddle of mindless goo, and you haven’t even come yet,” he said archly.  
  
“Oh, I came,” Potter said, his lips still moving over Draco’s neck, his collar bones, pressing a soft kiss to his Adam’s apple. “I just stay hard for a while. And you feel nice.”  
  
“Of course I do,” Draco said with self-satisfaction.  
  
“Of course you do,” Potter agreed amiably, kissing him again. “Draco?”  
  
“Hmmm?” he answered, happily floating again. It was rather nice to feel Potter still inside of him, he reflected. There was no more burn, and it was a connection unlike anything he’d ever felt before.  
  
“What are you doing tomorrow?”  
  
“You want me to think right now?” he asked dryly.  
  
“Mm-hm.” Potter pressed another kiss to the side of his jaw, then lipped the lobe of his ear.  
  
“I…” He had to actually force himself to think. He wasn’t used to having a conversation with a man whose cock was still inside of him. “I need to spend the morning with Mother, Aunt Andromeda and Ted.”  
  
“I’ve been invited to Andromeda’s, too,” Potter said conversationally. Draco marveled at his powers of concentration. “I meant after that.”  
  
“Uh, no formal plans, I don’t believe.” He opened his eyes and looked up. “Why?”  
  
Potter bit his lower lip disarmingly. “I’d like for you to be my date.” He paused. “At Ron and Hermione’s for dinner.”  
  
Draco’s eyes narrowed. “Ron and Hermione’s? Will it be just them?”  
  
“Uhm, no,” Potter answered. “It will actually be… the whole family. There’ll be about fifteen, all told.”  
  
Draco’s mouth dropped open. “Fifteen  _Weasley’s_? No wonder you sprung this on me while your cock was still up my arse; it was the only way to keep me from running screaming into the night.”  
  
Potter grinned. “You don’t mean that,” he said gently. “And she specifically asked me to invite you.”  
  
Draco’s eyes widened. “She did?”  
  
Harry nodded. “You scored a lot of points today, defending me like that. With her…” he leaned in and kissed him again. “And with me.”  
  
“It’s not why I did it,” Draco said. “But I’m glad that was the outcome.”  
  
Potter’s eyes softened. “There’s something else you should know, before you say yes about tomorrow.” Draco’s brows shot up. “If you go with me, as my date, it will be sort of like saying we’re together.” How the man could look so disarmingly flustered in that particular moment, Draco would never know.  
  
“Sort of?” He prodded.  
  
“Well, no. It will be a pretty clear announcement that we’re together.” He paused. “Is that all right with you?”  
  
“Yes, Harry,” he answered, lifting his hand to Potter’s face. “Yes. It’s all right with me.”  
  
The light that came into Potter’s eyes was perhaps the most beautiful thing that Draco had ever seen, and the kiss he leaned in to place on Draco’s lips the most poignant. He wrapped his arms around Potter’s neck, opening his mouth, initiating a slow dance of tongues that made interest stir once again in his groin. When Potter pulled back, his lips touched Draco’s ear.  
  
“Uhm, Draco?” he murmured. “I… don’t think I’m going to get soft again.”  
  
“You don’t?”  
  
“Nuh-uh.”  
  
Draco sighed. “Oh well, I’ll guess we’ll just have to do something about that, won’t we, Potter?”  
  
He felt Potter’s lips curl up in a smile. “I was hoping you’d say that.”  
  


~~~***~~~

  
  
They apparated onto Ron and Hermione’s front porch the next afternoon, and Harry turned to him just outside the front door.  
  
“Don’t be nervous,” he said, clearly nervous himself. Draco smiled.  
  
“ _I’m_  not,” he said wryly. Harry turned and rang the bell, and Draco leaned closer. “I just hope they have padded chairs,” he said pointedly. The fact that he was having difficulty sitting comfortably had been the source of much muttered discussion that morning.  
  
“Sorry about that,” Harry said, grimacing.  
  
“No, you’re not,” Draco shot back. Harry grinned.  
  
“No, I’m not.” He leaned in and was still kissing him when the door opened.  
  
“Well, hello.” They both looked up to find Ginny Weasley smiling at them slyly. “I guess I just lost fifteen galleons.” She turned. “You were right, George,” she called out, moving away from the door. “They were snogging on the porch!”  
  
“Oh, gods,” Draco muttered. Harry clung to his hand so he couldn’t Apparate away.  
  
All in all, it was a surprising successful day. Weasley and Granger were gracious, the siblings amused but not altogether obnoxious, the senior Weasley’s more than accommodating. Their home was surprisingly warm and inviting, and when they all walked into the dining room, it was as lavishly and beautifully set as anything he’d ever seen at the Manor. He did, however, pause when he saw the hard wooden chairs; there was no question that they were going to uncomfortable. But Harry, seemingly able to read his mind, surreptitiously slipped a pillow from the window seat onto his chair as he sat down without the table at large noticing. Or so he’d thought.  
  
They all took their seats as Granger proudly carried in a lovely turkey, and Harry caught his hand under the table, linking their fingers as he chatted with Arthur on his other side. Draco listened politely, sipping his wine, until George Weasley leaned in from the other side.  
  
“So,” he said under his breath, “how much is it worth to you for me to keep my gob shut about that cushion, princess?”  
  
Draco shot him a startled look, but saw the amused laughter in his eyes. Draco pretended to think about it. “How much is it worth to you for me not to tell your mother that the lovely Angelina occasionally shares you with the equally lovely Lee Jordan?”  
  
George’s eyes widened, then his smile ripened. “So, we both keep it shut then?”  
  
Draco nodded. “Deal.”  
  
He took a sip of a very nice white wine, looking around the table at the last family he’d ever expected to be eating Christmas dinner with. They were smiling, and laughing, and including him as a part of that. Because of the man seated at his side. He looked at Harry just in time to catch his eye, and hoped the smile he gave him was as warm as the emotion that was filling his heart. Apparently it was, for right there, in front of every Weasley in creation, Harry Potter made a most emphatic announcement by leaning in and kissing Draco Malfoy, accompanied by the sound of catcalls and applause.


End file.
